The glass, part-filled with slightly cloudy water has sat on the nightstand for three days now.
It’s becoming my own little joke – to come home and see if you’ve moved it yet. So far you haven’t, and I’ve decided to see how long it will stay there.
There are still boxes everywhere, half-unpacked boxes cluttering the doorways and spilling items across the floor. We haven’t had the time to fully unpack, so we’re living out of boxes while we get settled in.
The house is big, maybe too big right now, and it still echoes with emptiness. My wardrobe looks like it has three times as much space as I need, the rooms so vast that I don’t feel like each one would feel comfortable for years to come.
You left this glass here to pretend that the house is feeling like home, pretending that we’re already settled and comfortable here. You’re pretending that this house is lived-in when all it is, is hotel-like. So far it hasn’t worked, because it’s the only item left out, standing out in a sea of rooms where nothing is out of place.
We’re still living here like we’re in a hotel, cleaning up as we go, eating meals on the floor or at the kitchen bench, digging clothes out of suitcases and folding socks into drawers.
The move has been a slow process, incrementally putting clothes away and stacking dishes, arranging cupboards and shifting furniture. Each room becomes comfortable slowly, and then something clicks into place and it’s a home.
(four days later the glass is gone, sparkling clean with a dozen other freshly-washed dishes)