I find myself saying that I’m leaving in some odd-numbered days, but I don’t find myself believing it.
I walked to my last final telling myself that I won’t have to climb this hill or these stairs again until next August. That seems like a mighty long time to be away, but my legs are grateful because that hill has been nearly killing me for the last two years.
I could be driving home with my packed car, but I can’t leave Fig just yet. She’s carrying around a three foot log in the background trying to find the best way to attack. She’s only been mine for a few months and I’m just not ready to wake up to the morning where I don’t have scars on my hands and shredded paper or toys to sweep up. I think I’ll miss her a bit. I just can’t leave yet. It feels too soon.
It’s forty-something degrees and the sun is out and this is what I hope London is like because it’s lovely really. I guess I don’t have expectations. I will just have to figure it out for myself I suppose.