I lay in my apartment beside my nursing son. The ceiling fan spins cool air towards us but we are wrapped beneath my Christmas quilt, warm and together, and his eyes grow heavy and he drifts to sleep.
In the other room, I hear my mama and my oldest work together to pack boxes of our life. For the move I've been aching for yet dreading; for the life we know to change entirely and these moments to become memory.
If I close my eyes I will open them soon in our new home. I will by lying in this bed again, nursing Augustine back to sleep - a thousand miles from here.
I see myself standing in our new living room, unpacking boxes in our new kithen, scenes of it all play through my mind because moving is so familiar to me that I can know almost exactly how it will go. I carry my babies through the airport after so many teary goodbyes, I walk into our new home giddy and stay up all night decorating. I find new grocery stores and meal plan and write letters to family back home -- because home is split in two, it feels.
There will be relief, new rhythms, routines - finally, for the first time in our married life. Paychecks instead of student loans, communities and friendships grown that might last a lifetime. There will be a profound loneliness for a while, I know, but at least now I have the tools to wade through it -- find mom groups, go to story times, donuts and coffee after Mass -- I know I can do this, but I still know how much it will ache for a while.
There is such distance in our world, and we have traveled much of it. I have been a reluctant adventurer and though this is the end of one long journey, there is still so much ahead of me that I can't even imagine. Our lives are wide open and filled with opportunity and I can't wait to take it all in.
So I stand on the edge of everything I know and we pack our bags and jump into this new adventure, holding fast to our Faith and the hands of my little family - we can do this.