Tired of the dust and the desert creatures we decided a couple of years ago that January 2013 would be the time to start searching for the next setting in which our story would unfold. For two whole years we’ve pinned itty bitty maybes on cities in the map of our wildest dreams. We had lofty hopes of making tracks to Orlando, but the schools scared us off. We considered Denver, but then we visited one Christmas and the chill of our bones and the mess of sludgy snow quickly set our minds against it. It wasn’t intentional but eventually those pinned places fell in a cluster much closer to home until one day we looked up and realized that maybe there wasn’t a need to go. Maybe home is home, after all.
Just before the end of the year last year, there were whispers about Jeff’s current position up and moving across the country. With his ear close to the ground he waited, bringing home bits and pieces he’d gathered, though much like the whispered childhood game of telephone, it didn’t all come together. After the first of the year, we were sure, we’d know more. But with that having come and gone here still we are, waiting to hear.
Another cold spell arrived early in the week and with it came winds that whistled through the house. The silence I write by was interrupted by a persistent knock on the wall–the warning lift and fall of a chalkboard sign I made last year and hung by the front door. I pulled it in, just to be safe.
They’ve called a meeting for next week. We’re sure we’ll hear.
Just today I noticed that I never rehung the sign, even though the winds passed. There still it waits, right where I left it.