Driving streets in Berkeley, River doesn't remember our old house, the way we walked to Peet's around the corner every day. She doesn't remember herself in the thousand iterations of becoming, baby to baby girl. And I am a bundle of roots tied to boxes, mislabeled, open, shoved in corners, piled in the basement in Portland.
Sunday morning at the coffee house where I spent countless days writing, but all I do is stare down, tear fingernails in a neat line, toss them to the floor, free fall. Two days down with the flu, two days out and I almost want to talk but not yet. Who knew that this sadness would take over as soon as the pace slowed.
In six months we've lost almost all of our assets, moved twice, found out our daughter has extensive food allergies, gone through a string of jobs, and spent every day in survival mode. Now, we decide to fly on Christmas morning to see family, three days after moving again. I can't even make intelligible conversation. A shadow of myself, I'm floating.