So here's the thing that has me in fits of weeping: my garden.
It's thriving, you see, but we'll have left the premises prior to it bearing fruit.
I received a call from my landlord today, saying they were going to sell the house. That was his opening gambit after he asked if we could talk for a few minutes. Ah, I said. (Thinking to myself, it's okay, we'll be here the rest of the year, then we'll be looking to buy.)
Whammo. No dice.
Well, we already have a buyer, he says. But since you have the kid, we'll give you until August to get out.
So that's doable. August, I think. it changes up some plans, but it's doable.
We'll be there tomorrow to start scraping the house to paint it.
Dear readers, if there's one thing you know about me, it's that I'm the mother of a baby. A toddler. An under two wild wonder. I am a family woman.
Scraping a house vintage 1939 with this orally fixated tiny human living on premises is simply out of the question.
I counter to the landlord that tomorrow is problematic and ask for a delay. Fine, says, he. But it buys up our extended time here.
And so: here we are. I called My Beloved Mister at work, but he was so slammed and a bit stressed sounding, I chose to wait before sharing our BIG NEWS.
And I'm wondering for the gazillionth time what karmic joke, what Universe plan is at work, for since marrying as madly in love individuals with dreamy dreams to live out, we've experienced one challenge after another, one displaced dream following another, and frankly, it's rent the fabric of our commitment, and has damaged the tether that once was so effortlessly hopeful and even danced between us.
But all of this, even the mothering part, I handle and think of what comes next and how quickly to move on purging, finding a new place to hang our hats, even leaving the neighborhood which has likely not only outpriced us as owners, but now as renters, too.
And then, while washing up lunch dishes, I look out the window at my garden, and I am awash in tears.
Digging in, both figuratively and literally, the garden held my hope for all things here, even making (somehow) the likelihood of no more children bearable.
And so it goes, fits of weeping and winnowing.