Six more days. The truck will be here next Wednesday morning, and we’ll be on our way. I have a strange, uneasy feeling that something awful will happen to fuck it up. It’s that tense moment before your dream date arrives, when you’re certain he meant to call some other girl or has been staging a long and elaborate joke at your expense. Surely this is not really happening for me. I can’t really, finally be moving to Oregon.
But other good things are happening, have happened without a hitch. My daughter graduated yesterday. She didn’t fail her final exams, or forget to get some crucial paper signed, or trip down the stage after receiving her diploma. Not that any of that was likely. Just possible. But she sidestepped all those obstacles and graduated with her class, and afterward we gave her a laptop and took her to brunch and it all turned out just fine. My baby is grown up. She’s happy and healthy and out with her friends tonight to celebrate. A tiny voice in my head is whispering, See there? Nothing up my sleeve.
And this was Drew’s last day on the job. Everyone at work was nice to him and he got all the money he was entitled to and some letters of recommendation and it all went fine. He’ll be taking over the logistics of this move and for that I am grateful. He’s the kind of man who makes things turn out okay. I cling to his arm (ever helpful), he wields the machete, and together we always manage to get through the jungle with nothing more serious than a couple of scratches. (Which he’ll attend to, since he’s remembered the first aid kit.)
It’s going to happen. It really is.
I’m not letting Drew out of my sight.
Do you worry at the end?