Slip Slip – Fall
Slip Slip – Fall
Slip Slip –
Shiloh took his first steps – tottering on two wobbly legs on beige carpet. We were both there. Kevin and I cooed and awed while absorbing the moment. Eleven months after our lives crashed into the iceberg – relentlessly frigid and dead – our little Shiloh wiggled his tiny toes independently on a warm September day.
Shiloh took his first steps, when just days before, we took our last steps in one journey.
Last Thursday, we stood in front of the empty musty apartment. Our belongings were already either in our new home or our car. The apartment gave us the exception to move out without penalty for my mental health to get into a new environment and somehow (The Lord) the money dropped out of the sky to fund our move. After we knew we were done, Kevin slammed the door – though he had to do it twice because the first time it was comically caught on the closet – and I turned the copper key for the last time. It was over.
This chapter was done – and I will never live in a home where I ever had cancer or chemo.
I love our new town home rental. I love turning the silver unmarked key and being greeted by all the familiar smells. All of our wall art polka dots our humble home in just the right places. The piano we got for free from Craigslist, but took an army of friends to get into the house, is finally tuned and settled in the dining room.
In our free moments, the cats are sunbathing in my writing room, our husky is resting on the kitchen floor, Shiloh is propped on one of our laps, and Kevin and I play the piano. The chords of our thriving life whips around staircases, overturned primary color baby toys, steaming coffee cups, and dog hair covered couches.