I'm done. Really. The suitcases are closed, bordering on explosion, and are in the car ready to leave at 5 tomorrow morning. My children and I are booked for a long journey with two layovers, one of which is in Canada. We are flying on our frequent flier miles, which means you must take what they offer as far as the route goes. Usually I would be dreading it. Out travel time will be 24 hours easily by the time we arrive in Denver. This time I don't care.
It's been quite hot in Italy, and yesterday we went swimming in this stream that runs through the mountains behind our house. The water is glacier cold, and the pool beneath the waterfall is deep enough to dive into.
The dog's kennel is ready and he has his ticket, too. We glued a poster that I took off the wall of the children's room to the top of it. It's an aerial photograph of the Colorado Fouteeners, the Colorado mountain peaks that exceed 14,000 feet. We are moving to a town at 9,000 feet altitude, where it takes you a few days to catch your breath. My husband drew an arrow on the top of the highest peak on the poster with the words "Lucky is here". Lucky is the lucky dog coming with us.
One of Colorado's Fourteeners
The last few days have been the hardest of all. The rounds of goodbyes have been literally gut wrenching. I didn't consider that at all, until all of a sudden I found myself crying over and over again. The truth is I wasn't crying for the people I wouldn't be seeing for a while, but for myself and family, for the fear that this big leap will land us a mud puddle. In my heart I believe that I lead a sort of charmed life, and at times like these I'm sure I'll do something, or something will just happen, that will take that life away from me. My doubts began to manifest the moment I laid my head on the pillow.
I've been tending to this rose bush for the past two years in the hopes that it would bloom. It has finally decided to bloom now that I'm leaving!
Cleaning out and dismantling my home has been both painful and liberating, and has brought to light things long hidden away. As I was cleaning out the drawers of my children's desk, I found my eldest son's diary. I have a vague memory of both my children asking me to buy them diaries years ago. My firstborn had a green diary with a little padloclock on it. My youngest had a blue one. I believe they were 9 and 7 years old at the time. When I stumbled upon these the other day, the blue one was torn open and scribbled on with pastels, and held a few drawings of cartoon characters. The green one, however, fell onto the floor and was opened to the first page. My big boy really had kept a diary for a while, and his neat fourth grade calligraphy filled the first twenty or so pages. I resisted my urge to read the whole thing, and put the diary in a box of our most important keepsakes. I did, however, see the introductory line to his diary, which read:
"Io vengo da una famiglia speciale..."
(I come from a special family)
I guess this means that I'm not the only one who thinks she leads a charmed life. And I know that feeling is something we hold inside and nurture no matter where we are, or what language we are speaking.