Molting season

I have this recurring dream where I have to leap great distances like some kind of mountain goat or Tom Cruise. I can feel the terror and the impossibility of the span but what can I do? I’m stuck in that dream. I have to catapult my body through the air.

In real life I’m facing a giant leap. As the clock ticks down, I have to jump from California to Minnesota, from this life to another. I already have one foot in the air, wind whistling in my ears, arms outstretched like the slow-motion scenes in the Matrix movies.

The moving truck will arrive on July 29.

I’m moving so fast that I’m practically standing still. In these seconds that pass like minutes, in these hours that disappear in a blink, I will lose half my kids. I’m flying from a full nest to a half-empty one, abandoning my two baby birds even though they aren’t babies. I’m not leaving them behind; they decline to move.

It feels weird. This is the first time since I left home in a Greyhound bus bound for college that I felt like I was unzipping one life and slipping into another.

I spend half my week doing nothing but working at my job. While I’m there, it’s as if nothing will ever change. Truth is, I’ll be giving my two weeks notice in a little over a month. Don’t tell my boss.

The other half of the week I carry on (grocery shop, clean, launder clothes) and then sort, purge, pack, sort, purge, pack. It’s always surprising how long it takes to pack a few boxes. I tell myself the each box I pack is a box I won’t have to pack again, so I am making progress. In slow motion.

I’m glad that the thrift store has opened back up so I have a place to leave my discarded belongings.

And now I’m going to pack a box. Or two.