If “God has Planted Eternity in Men’s Hearts and Minds”… Where’s Home?
Moving house is an upheaval that most of us have the smarts to do just twice or thrice in a lifetime. The impost of upending your life’s accumulation into cardboard boxes is unmentionable, albeit cathartic. I’m an ‘If-it-hasn’t-been-used-in-the-last-12-months-get-rid-of-it’ girl. This invariably causes friction with my ‘I-better-hold-onto-this-in-case-I-need-it-next-decade’ husband. We managed. We wrapped it all in newsprint, packed it in boxes, stacked it in a truck and shifted it to a neighbouring suburb within a few days, thank you very much. I may have taken a few stealthy armloads to the wheelie bin when hubby wasn’t looking… During this madness there were a few moments when I had headspace to look around and mourn what we were unlatching ourselves from. A red front door. A sun-drenched window seat. A magnolia tree. A gate to the best neighbours in the world. A doorjamb marked with our son’s height at birth, one, two. A doorbell that can be heard four doors down. I allowed a self-indulgent tear to be shed over the place we had called home for the …