Moving On

He came to the house to give her a moving estimate. "OK, where would you like to start?" he asks.

"We'll work from the front to the back of the house, then downstairs and up," she replies as she directs him to her dining-room-that-never-was. That was the room they refinanced for, the last time. Her husband said they would do the finishing touches to the house with that re-fi money. Well, she did get some finishing touches. She just wasn't aware it was the marriage that was finished. 

Moving through the house, she states what will be sold or tossed and what gets to go on the United Van Line truck. The chair she curled up in, alone, moves with her; the couch doesn't. That's where he plopped every night, escaping into baseball or whatever, away from her. The rocker moves on, she says. That's where she rocked her babies, all three.

The stranger proceeds through her rooms with his calculator, adding the pounds up, the remains of her life. Her load is light. She sloughs off the excess and unwanted memories. She needs this physical move, this new place, to start a new life. She's been in transit for four years and this is her final destination. She won't look back.

They stand in the master bedroom. "I'm undecided about this furniture," she says. He cocks his head, perplexed. "I may disassemble it and take a portion of it. But the bed doesn't make the journey. I like the side cabinets and the dresser, so count them in," she concludes with confident satisfaction. He's holding back a chuckle, but he's just here for business. His fingers tap the calculator and then he looks at her, his face composed.

"What about the bedding, ma'am, the comforter and pillows?" he asks.

Knowing that she can't afford replacements right away, she nods, "Yes, I'll pack them up."

In her head, she pictures burning the bed in her backyard. A farewell bonfire to her life with him.