Today, I begin my shift to a new home with my mother as I separate from my wife of 10 years. It is my 13th in 32 years since I left my parental home. This time, I have my mother (like twice in the past) to help me set it up, and I am so thankful she is doing a lot of heavy lifting here.
That said, once again, I am looking at mattresses & couches, talking to carpenters and plumbers, and filling forms for broadband and LPG connections. Once again, I look at an empty house and wonder what it contains. Once again, I see hope, this time with much more cynicism than last time, and probably less than the next time. Once again, I hit reset. Once again, I desperately attempt a relight after a violent stall, hoping I do not need to pull the ejection handles, so tantalisingly within reach (yes, it would be so easy). Once again I look out in the emptiness ahead of me and try and forget what I left behind.
I see from the window of my car, inside which I sit working as my daughter runs with her group, panting for breath, red from the effort, and, as the endorphins kick in, happy for it. Another morning. Another sun rises. Another day beckons. The world goes on.
49 years, 29 businesses, 13 houses, 3 bankruptcies, 2 marriages, 1 child. 1 life. And nothing to show for it, but stories.
