On Not Knowing
We're moving. We're really moving. Maybe in as little as six weeks from now.
But we don't really know.
We still don't know if we're going to take a vacation this summer. If our cats will stay in Japan, and break my heart. Or if they will become Canadian mouse hunters, or possibly American living room lords, and empty my bank account.
I don't know.
I'm not sure what awaits me where we're going. I don't know the degree of the heat, or the weight of the humidity, or the vehemence with which the traffic blares, or the brightness of strangers' smiles.
I don't even know when I can tell you where we're going.
I don't know if I'll be retching my guts out, the price paid for unnameable fruit, luscious and ripe. I don't know what lusty spice awaits, what sour piques will awaken the palate. What strange textures, and unknown flavors will capture my heart. I know nothing of the islands we'll visit, of the sandcastles we'll make, the white-knuckle flights on dodgy airplanes, under the burden of broken air conditioning and a mysterious stomach bug.
I don't know if I should get a typhoid vaccination. Or how I'll get a mumps vaccine for my girl before we leave. Or a final shot inoculating her against polio. And do I need to horde children's Tylenol? Sunscreen? Multivitamins? Headache pills? Natural insect repellent? Children's books? WIll I need sweaters? Do pack them away and risk mouldering? I need a new pair of jeans, but is there a point? Will I even wear them there? Are sundresses to shoulder-baring and indecent?
I do know that I'm excited. In this moment right here, after a noodle dinner with my family and an evening bike ride, I'm happy. I know that some days are hard. And some are wonderful. I know that sometimes I cry, and sometimes I get on with it, and clean out the closet, making piles, this one to keep, this one to sell, this one to toss. And some days, even, deep down in hidden depths I relish the adventure, and feel lucky that I have this story to tell, this story that I don't yet know.