I'm packing up my books today. Don't ask me why-- I don't want to talk about it. Maybe when it's over and I've made it to the next chapter, but not now. I'm still in the midst of writing the page.
So here I am, in my pajamas still. Being watched by Immie the stuffed zebra, who is also sporting pajamas. Listening to Ingrid Michaelson (check her out, she's beyond amazing). Putting together cardboard boxes saved from when I moved in. Funny how they helped me get here, and now they're helping me get out.
I don't know where I'm going. I have a plan in the works, but nothing is for certain at this point. I'll reveal the plot as it develops. I must remind myself that this is not the end of the story, but only a very small piece. Several chapters from now it will be so very, very insignificant, and you will turn out to be nothing more than a minor character, a bit part as The Antagonist.
I want to read Ruth White's Weeping Willow for what must be the thousandth time in the past dozen or so years that I've had it. That is my comfort book. When my world is upside down, when everything is wrong and changing, it's always the same. The characters, places, events are all familiar pieces to which I can always return. And it reminds me that whatever I suffer, the healing process always leads to something better.