It isn’t easy, this constant moving.
The dearly deluded say things like “So, are you all settled into your new home?” in much the same way that some ask, after finally getting free from an abusive and unhealthy marriage, “So, are you guys friends now?” As if that would even be wise; as if the reason for the divorce was simply that we weren’t getting along.
No, we are not settled. The unmaking of a home is always a time of intense grieving for me; always moving, but never a settling of heart. None of these places are “home” in the sense that four walls and a roof of your very own are. These are not appliances I picked out and bought; nor, for that matter, are the paint colors on the walls. It doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, or that it isn’t nice, it just isn’t mine.
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