We’re waiting. We’ve been waiting. Just four blocks away is our house- beautiful, clean, windows shining and nary a drip or spill on the untouched cooktop. For months we’ve lived in a little rental house, crowded by unpacked boxes in our interim home, potted plants lining the backyard, awaiting their appointed places in the new lot. There’s a cutting of the REAL Tombstone rose that has outgrown its container, several bananas, plumeria, bougainvillea, pots of mint and peppers and a sorely stressed avocado tree I started from a pit years ago. It bothers me that there’s so much clutter and dirt about- but I’m so close to the final cleaning that it’s hardly worth the bother.
Same time, next week, I should be moved in completely. I hope this final stage stops the constant theme of my dreams in which I am forever selling our old home or moving yet again, the process complicated by miserable tasks imagined by my brain while unfettered by my conscious state. In the dark of night, my head on the pillow, I am challenged by light fixtures several stories above the floor, with an air conditioning unit blocking my arm’s reach from my perch atop a ladder. Or I am forced to pack up a plant shelf near the ceiling, only instead of pots there is a sofa that I must somehow remove. How on earth did it get up there in the first place? That part of the plot is never explained.
There is more to life than moving trucks and maintenance and cleaning (although I am quite familiar with all of these things). My night blooming cactus, for instance. But first, I must move it- with care!