I've just finished packing my room--two and a half years in this place, and it's not very big, but so much STUFF! 4 garbage bags have been filled with things I don't need/want/use anymore, and are waiting for Wednesday's trucks to whisk them away into oblivion. My pictures, curtains, paintings--all off the walls, leaving them looking sad and expectant.
We are pseudo-adults, hiring a van and two movers to get our junk from point A to point B in the morning, going to look at flatscreen televisions this afternoon, planning a trip to Ikea next week for all the things we'll discover we don't have over the next few days.
Together we try to make sense of what it all means--silently, questioning one another with our eyes when those playful glances turn serious. It amazes me, the power of a true "look"--how much we can say without saying anything at all. We apologize for all the things we can't say out loud: I love you, I'm scared, I'm not sure but I'm excited. I WANT to be sure. I am trying to take this all in. I don't believe it will last, but if it does it will be the best thing that has ever happened to me. We still touch one another carelessly, aimlessly, surprised when those touches generate heat. Will I always want you this much?
Later on, looking back, we will laugh at our bumbling attempts to say what we both know: that this is a precious thing, simple and easy, but that does not guarantee success. We both know it. We don't care. The sex is too good. The laughs come too frequently. And if I fear that he tells me his capacity to be crazy about anyone is ruined just to keep me from wondering if his inability to be blown away by this has to do with me specifically, I keep my mouth shut. Time will tell.
In the meantime, I tape up my last box and hope for the best, for both of us. We deserve it.