Since the middle of August, Alex and I have been packing for a move across town. Just packing, eagerly, furiously. The day before the move we had to shift our attention. It was Alex’s birthday, and Hurricane Irene was heading up the coast.
We got lucky. Irene (from the Greek for “peace,” oddly enough) did not hit us as hard as we expected. When late afternoon came, we crept across the darkened landscape to a foreign, unfurnished home. We sat on the hard floor for dinner, cards, and gifts. Between bites, the kids christened the place with breakdancing. Fatigue fogged our joy.
Boxes still meet every glance. Little is in place. Aching, grateful, I try to muster the birthday card I never took time to write. Something about storms, something about peace, something about sanctuary. The words will have to wait as I, as we, begin slowly to settle.