The potted herbs wilt on the shelf in the breakfast nook. Dust drifts from room to room as the house slowly empties.
Fourteen hours after the day started, my muscles ache even though I barely carried anything. My office has been dismantled. Files now sit in a borrowed space in Independence. Furniture has been deposited into a basement room. Every nook and cranny of my car holds the flotsam and jetsam that remains after decades of law practice finds its way to the end, or to the beginning of whatever lies ahead.
I’ve given thanks. I’ve settled the dog in her foster home. I’ve lost my breath as my son walked around, looking at the dwindling piles of his childhood memories. I’ve hugged my sister, who hates to fly and might never come to visit me on my Pacific. I’ve closed boxes, and counted envelopes, and shredded copies of old letters that probably no one ever read.
It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when this wild plan crystallized for me. Scroll through every meme on social media about the woman who finds her own path. Those thimbles full of potential irresistably beckoned me. Perhaps I’m in the wrong era of my life for this momentous change. Nonetheless, I’ve taken one more step towards tomorrow, and I have no regret.
It’s the twenty-sixth day of the forty-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.