The Partner and I packed most of three years into boxes and, on Sunday night, sat in front of a stripped down television set-up. We ate pizza off paper plates. On HBO, Tony and his family were moving on, too. We settled in together for the last time.
There was Junior's blank stare. There was a blank screen.
We sat back and sighed. Life goes on.
It's not going anywhere fast. The buyers of our house decided one week before the scheduled closing that they didn't like some of the particulars of their loan agreement. They are changing lenders. While we are still waiting to hear the new closing date, we can assume that it will be at least one week later than the original--one week being The Partner's optimistic assessment. Me, I'm not drinking from the same half-full glass. While they push back dates, I push back the fear that the deal will fall through. The agent for the buyers assures us that her clients fully intend to buy our house, but the uncertainty is always there.
The boxes are packed. Only the television, DVD player, computers, toaster oven, one pot, a skillet, some cutlery, and a microwavable plate remain in the open. I dress out of a suitcase each morning after rising from a mattress on the floor. It's fine, except that somehow, living stripped-down like this has made room for the kind of worry I don't usually indulge.
I worry about ever actually moving, of course; but then that worry translates to others, like planning for our next child, or freaking out about things that people I don't even know (read: other bloggers) are going through, or contemplating the strange realities of my extended family. The thing I detest most about the process of selling our house is that the uncertainty breeds uncertainty.
Suddenly we are sucked back into Sunday night and our existence is a diner in New Jersey where artful direction makes things seem slow-mo even though they aren't. We are fat-fried and together. Our hearts race as we wait. In limbo, introspection is a long aisle; it is the distance to the opening door.