When the ball rolls to the other side.
When it stops feeling quite as much like the ending of the previous life, and a bit more like the beginning of the next.
There is still pathos, still tears that never quite stop coming from the corner of the eyes.
Never an end to the memories, that cannot be held in neat rectangular boxes despite all efforts
To fit them inside.
And yet -- there is that subtle moment when the words "my home" shift.
When that which was "my house" is now an empty shell,
To be passed on, to find new warmth, new stories to inhabit it,
A new place to take that meaning now.
Not the moment of action, but that of intent,
Planning where each piece goes, what will occupy each shelf,
My feet up on the table as I finish the last sip of a mead long neglected,
Contemplating construction of my place.
And yes, still some tears -- but more of exultation,
A sense of beginnings a-born'ing.
Much to move on the morrow,
And more on Monday.
But finally, a sense of rolling downhill, pell-mell,
Towards new days,
Different, exciting, and hopeful of new stories to tell.
A good bottle of mead is no respecter of refined poetry -- proper iambic pentameter clearly wasn't going to happen tonight, much less the sonnets I occasionally find myself enmeshed in. And yet, as I finish my drink before going to bed, something needed to get out, and it feels good to feel that spark of creativity returning...