Early yesterday morning, it's still dark in the lowest portion of my mom's back yard, sun coming over the horizon and limning everything from behind, glorious pale gold edging darkest green. A set of rough timber stairs leading to an opening in overgrown yew hedges, opening to the already brightly sunlit field beyond. Words from Anne Tyler's "The Accidental Tourist" run through my mind:
"She took one of his wrists very gently and she drew him into the house, still not fully opening the door, so that he had a sense of slipping through something, of narrowly evading something."
Walked through my new house yesterday afternoon, showing the boys where they will come home to on Sunday when I pick them up from their dad. A long way to go betwixt now and then, much packing and organizing and carrying and loading and unloading and unpacking and reorganizing. It will be hard work, and long, and I relish the prospect.
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