The men are laying new vinyl today. “Do you want the seam here… or there?” asks the one in charge.
And I’m thinking, I don’t care. I won’t be living with it. This will no longer my home. I’m losing my sense of home. I’m already separating from it like a dying person begins to separate from the present life.
But I ask what he thinks, and he says if we run the seam east to west, we need to walk across it, but north to south is less obtrusive. I notice that where the old vinyl is lifting (and where I often trip) is running east to west.
“It sounds good to me. You’re the expert,” I say. And I retreat to the sofa, out of the way. This is my now. Jumbled up and torn up. With messes and delays. Interruptions and separation. Decisions and more decisions. Fast food and doughnuts. Grieving and anticipation.
Nothing is working seamlessly. This is not the original crew that was to lay the flooring. But the first day was postponed because somebody’s grandfather died. The next day someone quit, and there was a scramble for a backup. Now we need to postpone the carpet installation, and other projects need to be realigned and reassigned. The time clock is running, and I can’t envision what my not yet might look like.
“I moved from palm trees to maple trees on a tidal wave of gratitude,” Christie Purifoy wrote in Roots and Sky: A Journey Home in Four Seasons.”
I’m trying not to be jealous of Maplehurst, of Christie’s coming home. Because we are leaving home. We’re leaving our 150-year-old-plus farmhouse, my husband’s childhood home, where he brought me to meet his parents 45 years ago, where we replanted our roots over 25 years ago since moving back to Michigan.
My heart hurt when my inlaws sold this house. Who knew we’d one day redeem it?
Continued over at GraceTable where I try to seam together thoughts of home. . .
The Atlantic Ocean at sunset
Moving in the stillness,
Linking with Jennifer and Holley today. It’s been a while.