All the melancholia in the world is stuffed in a box marked “Living Room’’.
Stack enough boxes in one place, you build a bluesy metaphor for your own impermanence. Four years ago, we left a home we’d occupied for 29 years. It was like ripping out a heart and a couple bicuspids. Devastating emotionally and a major pain in the rear.
We raised a family in that place. I wrote a couple books there and several thousand columns. We had good friends and neighbors. It was a lovely spot at the end of a common drive, woods on three sides. We left to downsize and empty nest. I thought it was the last time. It wasn’t.
We’ve decided we’re too far from Jillian The Magnificent. Our daughter is a wonder every day, but she also needs rides to her two jobs every day and she lives half an hour away. The taxi service can be taxing when you live in the next county, so . . .
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