Each year, in the last dozen, one or the other daughter (and often both) has had to move. I’ve helped with moves that were on the top floor of four story walk ups. I’ve unpacked glassware that seemed far in excess of the cupboard space available for it. I’m sure I’ve broken down and carted off enough cardboard boxes to plant a forest.
I can’t say that I love or even like moves, but surely if they’re not fun for me, they can’t be much fun for the moving person either.
I’m taking the bus down to Chicago today to help with one more move – my youngest one is settling into her place down there and I promised I’d be around for a few days to help unpack. (I'm posting early in anticipation of Internet issues at her place later today.) Surely this is the last of the daughter moves. After that, I have one more move left in me – when I sell the condo. To the farmhouse. That’s it. No more.