Thank You For The Moon, Thank You For The Stars
Tonight is the last night we will sleep in this place. The movers will come tomorrow to take the furniture to the new house.
One of the many irrational feelings I have had, with regards to moving, is the sense that I will become disconnected from my memories. This is where Jenny and I did the bulk of the creating and rehearsing of Submission and this is the place Fred and I came home to after we became engaged, married, parents. In leaving, I lose the physical, tangible connection to my past, am left to rely on the unreliable brain cells and synaptic relays. What will remain after we move? how can I leave this place?
It is overcast and gray today. I can only see my neighbors' rooftops from my window. The skyscrapers are hidden from view, but I believe they are there, behind the clouds. Another completely irrational thought I have with regards to moving is that I stand like a guard and keep watch over the city. I watched the world end (or so I thought) in this house and I remember looking out our window, thinking the buildings of downtown Chicago would be the next to fall. I know, intellectually, that I couldn't stop something from happening, that all I could do if disaster did strike would be to watch, but on a deeper level I feel my presence has had an effect. The act of watching changes the result. Over the past five years, I have watched the skyline. So who will protect it when I go?
I love the house into which we are moving, but I can't help but mourn all that I feel I will lose when we leave this house I have also loved.
I will miss the buildings. I will miss the sunrise. I will miss the sky.