When our boy rushed off to Sydney, he left a couple of things behind. Like a car. And all his stuff.
Last week the car was sold and a lovely young man came and took it away. Since then, it’s been weird to not see it parked out the front of our house.
Today, two men came and loaded all his worldly possessions into a truck, got me to sign a piece of paper, and then drove off.
I walked into his room, now empty save for a bed and dresser, and took a deep breath.
That was it. All gone.
At least when he went to Canberra at 17, he still had stuff here. He still had plans, back then, to return to Brisbane to live at some point.
Now, this move to Sydney feels very final. Especially when he says on the phone “I’m not doing this again for a very long time!”
So, we get the room back, which means I can set up a desk for writing and my bowen study. I can put my bowen table back up and begin treatments again. I have a spare bed to dump the washing on. Oh and to use if we have guests.
Yet, all this is small compensation for the fact that I don’t get to see him, or hear the sound of the xbox through the closed door, or the muffled sound of a phone conversation.
I have only just stopped getting five plates out for tea, or getting out three mugs for coffee. And I am still cooking enough for five, too. (Anyone get hungry, there is a free meal here each night, at least for another few weeks, I reckon.)
And now it all seems rather final and I find myself saying with sadness, not relief, that we can all get back to a ‘normal’ routine now.
I’d really rather not have the ‘normal’, if you don’t mind.