On Water

We’re looking for a new place to live.

We’ve lived in this little house on Water Street for just over five years now.  Have I written here lately about this house and how much I love it? I know I’ve written about it elsewhere.

Hardwood floors, wide windowsills, beautiful light.  Close to the beach and my favorite café.

The FOR SALE sign went up in late June and by the time I got back home from two weeks away in July, there was a SOLD sticker on it.

It’s okay though.  The truth is, it was getting a little cramped for us.  We were tired of living with tenants below us and we’d been planning to move in the spring, when my diploma program is done.

But still.  I always find moving emotionally difficult.

The summer has been beautiful.  In the evenings we ride our bikes down to the small bridge that curves over the creek.  The girls scan the yards for cats and dogs.  We stop at the fenced yard where the pig (yes, pig!) lives and poke our fingers through to touch his soft snout.  We pick grapes at the end of the alley, and roses from the foreclosed house a few yards down.  We know this neighborhood now like a crinkled, well-used roadmap.

We moved here the spring that Ella—who just turned 6 a few weeks ago—was 9 months old. We had Ryn’s 4^th birthday party in the yard; face–painting and chocolate cake and musical chairs.  Ella learned to crawl and walk here.  They both learned to ride their bikes in the back alley.

It occurred to me yesterday that this is all Ella has ever known.  This house, these wood floors, the small rooms and bright kitchen.  I remember the first summer we were here, we walked down to the beach often.  Ryn would float in her little animal inner-tube and Ella would scoot around at the edge of the water, never venturing out, just staying right there where the waves crumbled onto the shore.

By the next summer, Ella could run.  She floated in an inner-tube sometimes, but more often, she ran back and forth along the edge of the waves.

She can swim now, but she still does this, still runs back and forth at the place where the water meets the sand.  Back and forth, back and forth.  So yesterday I took her picture.

And see?  I start to get all sentimental.  And I suddenly notice and LOVE things I didn’t really pay attention to before; the nailpolish-painted rocks the girls have scattered in different spots along the alley and on neighbors’ fence posts.  The pencil lines where we marked each of their heights on the kitchen doorframe.  One winter, Ryn glued an orange paper sun to the ceiling, brought out a beach towel and pretended to be in Mexico.  It’s been there ever since.  Now I don’t want to take it down.

I find myself in old patterns of worry.  Will life ever be as beautiful?  C laughs at me and says I’m mellow-dramatic.  And it’s true.  But it’s the way I am.

And so now what?

We scour the listings, drive up and down roads where we can see ourselves living.  I try to picture us eating at a picnic table in the yard, search for a good window where I can put my desk.

Last night I went for a run.  It was only eight, but it was almost dark.  The air was heavy and hot.  As I ran, I thought about how much I’ve loved living close to the water.  I decided to cut left to the beach, which was empty, and I pulled off my running shoes and socks and went for a swim.  Afterward, I sat at the edge of the waves and let them lap up onto my feet.  I could see the moon reflecting against the water in a long, wide line.

As the waves washed against my ankles, I felt some sort of assurance—no, promise—that goodness will not run out on me.

And I decided that this time round, I’m going to do something radical: I’m not going to worry.  I’m just going to trust that it’ll all pan out the way it should.

Not too long ago, I had a dream that the four of us—C, Ryn, Ella and I—were all standing outside on the front steps of this house on Water Street.  All around us, it was stormy and pouring rain, but the roof hanging over the steps sheltered us and we stayed dry.

It’s pointless to try to hold onto what we had. I’ll leave the nailpolish-painted rocks for someone else to find.  I’ll take down the paper sun and throw it away.  We’ll pack up our boxes and find another place that will shelter us now.