Empty boxes line the hall of my eight hundred square foot, two-bedroom apartment. Piles of books wait to be stored. Dishes carefully folded in cloth and bubble wrap, stand in queue for relocation.
Another year, another move.
With a fall to my knees, I grab the packaging tape as I assemble a crushed box. Hello familiar friend. How long has it been? Nine months? Ten? Black ink marks the outside of it, my indication that this one is to hold ‘Important Papers: File Cabinet’.
I swallow, a dip in my belly. Why again? A twitch of my nose, then I get down to business. Minutes slip by as the stuff of my life is placed neatly inside one box after another. Treasures that made the cut, each and every move. All the things deemed worthy to make the trek across the country, one. more. time.
New schools for the children. Again. The process of finding another church home. Again. All the things I’d been through a hundred-and-one times. Minus the husband.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes and I pause to suck in a deep breath. This move will be different. Unlike all the others the children and I faced, year after year. The divorce papers signed, the final decision of the courts made.
It is time to begin again.
I settle onto my bottom, close my eyes, reflect on the goodness that awaits me. The untold future that is all mine. My children’s.
With a renewed energy, I snag another box, chuckle at the description my nine-year-old scrawled across the side: “Jenna’s toys. Do not touch.” This one will be saved for something other than books. I toss it aside, a faint smile on my face.
This move will be different. I can feel it in my bones, an unseen pulse of life, dormant for so many years. It is time to let it free. It is time to start something new.
It is time to live.
©Laura L. Zimmerman 2016
Photo cred pixabay