Packing my home feels like undressing the dead. Taking the pictures off the walls and clearing the mantle, disrobing my home and making her a blank canvas again upswells all the sediment from the bottom of the well. All the hopes and joy that I felt while unpacking, while setting up my beautiful home, now rise on the gentle swirl of sorrow in the tide. It’s not cruel or malicious. It just is, and seems almost gently mindful of my sorrow as it swells up and breaks the surface of the water, to float away in the cool winter sunlight. My tears dry into tight trails on my cheeks, and time rolls on.

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