Sometimes, oftentimes really, it is very scary to be here-doing this. Not blogging. Definitely not blogging, because I haven't been doing enough of it for it to be the thing that hides inside the closet of my heart and head. It is scary to be doing "this". All of this. The moving, and selling of the old house (got *this close* to an offer, but no cigar), watching my son grow and, all the while, kind of being suspended in a way. A way in which I pretend that the days will just go on and on with James being 10. That there won't come a day in which he-rightfully- leaves the nest and I will be left with the empty spaces of a future that should have been two of us. What will I do? That is what scares me. In being honest with myself, and possibly incuring the wrath of the all knowing "Anonymous", I sometimes hope not to live so very long after my nest is empty. It is not grief I wish to deliver to my children, it is just the empty...the empty of not really wanting to contemplate things, or do things, venture out on things without the one who was supposed to be by my side.
Anway, these are the things that have kept me from blogging. These, and the infernal boxes that continue to scream out for unpacking or tossing or a mix of the two.