When people care to ask, I don’t murmur a polite ‘good thanks’ or ‘pretty good considering’. I am heavy with existential emptiness.
"Thank you; I am very nearly emotionally dead. How are you?"
It is said that moving house is as stressful as a divorce. Pity those who have to both. I will stick to breaking up with the house, finally after four long months of saying goodbye. Just a few more days of trudging down this unknown road, the blues all round my head, and in my heart a numbness. Still the familiar magpie sings. Goodbye, maggie, you who keeps one eye on me while you listen for worms in the grass beside the Moonee Ponds creek. I don’t expect to see you much when I move my family up to the concrete village.
I’ve neglected Disability Care People, because I haven’t been able to care for anything beyond my clutch of possessions, and I’ve been cruelly unsure of what to cherish and what to bid good riddance. Alone, I struggle, while the evidence outside piles up of multitudes dealing with the same dilemma. Hard rubbish lines the streets. The perfectly good rests alongside the has-beens and the could-a-beens. The recycle bins are overflowing.
One day, remembering the magpie, I will sing again. And I will pick up on my writing.
We will take the breathtaking leap up to a 3rd floor apartment. Hope Street, that’s where our future lies.