Another Chapter Closes

The house creaks and cracks with such ferociousness, I am unable to sleep.  Perhaps it does not like the starkness of bare walls, the absence of furniture, the finality of boxes stacked and sealed.  It is my last night here – just myself, a king sized bed and a complaining house.

So much has changed in the five years since we bought this place, on a whim, a response to the fear cancer evoked in us.  I didn’t know then that it would be me, not my husband, who would benefit from the healing environment, who would be thankful for the small space, who would take to bed here.

But even an old character like this house can become a prison, and as life threw one curveball after another at us, we decided that we could either stay put and wait for the next one, or we could move on.

So, I spend one more night, while Ric does last minute preparations on the RV, and listen to the grumblings of the house.

“You have been very good to us,” I whisper.  “Now you will favour someone else.”

Maybe the house, like me, is afraid of unknowns.  She is older than I am so change must certainly be more precarious.  She emits another groan, and I concur.  We grand dames need more TLC at our ages, but I have faith – an injection of new life will do us both good.

Tomorrow we sign her over to someone else.  And tomorrow we embark on an adventure wilder than I’ve ever dreamed.

(Image of sunset over Lake Huron, our temporary new home, is compliments of my husband, Ric Knutson)




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Permission to write, paint, and imagine are the gifts I gave myself when chronic illness hit - a fair exchange: being for doing. Relevance is an attitude. Humour essential.

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