XIII. Casi en el Posado

Almost in the Past

No caption needed here.

Last night we slept half in the middle of our nearly empty living room's cool faux marble floor, on a futon. Our muslin-covered easy chair hunkered in the corner--the only other furniture in the room. A pile of boxes off to the side. Echoes. No curtains, bare walls on which a bar of streetlight slanted through the blinds of a different window.

Tonight it will be more of the same. It's our last night at home--the next three we'll be spending in local hotels. We feel tense about what is coming up. Uncharacteristically crabby with each other.

Today, first daughter and I chatted and shared a final visit before the move, while Eddie, our Hyundai, was bled, cleaned, filled and lubed at the Grease Monkey in Ballard, the Seattle neighborhood where we used to live. Daughter and I hugged goodbye at her favorite coffee bar.

Two hundred years ago around here the natives lived in cedar longhouses and followed food you hunt and gather. Then the Swedes came to fish and build sawmills. Then we came here and grew up, and now we're moving to Mexico.

As I lie tonight under our familiar duvet on the unfamiliar futon, it registers in my mind that in just four nights we will be laying our heads on a pillow in Ajijic. My mind retreats from this thought--it is too much of a change to fathom.