My son is obsessed with the idea of imminence. "My daddy coming," he says. "Rain coming!" "Monster coming."
He's 2.5, and he already knows the piquancy of anticipation.
I'm visiting my hometown this weekend, an endeavor guaranteed to make me maudlin (to know what you want and never be able to have it, to feel the pain of coming close, blah blah blah).
In three days: My move. My second inside of a year. Maybe my last in decades.
I can feel it approaching- all the boxes I haven't packed. All the permanence I haven't yet, in my life, been able to enjoy. The idea that I might stay put -not forever, but for a good long while- is both sobering and intoxicating, like sipping wine while the cement dries around your feet.
My last move. It's coming. Soon.