I sit in the living room castled in by papers watching the big willow-like tree across our garden throw its banana-yellow strands of flowers in the wind. Part of me for an instant wants to be out there, to make a list of my favorite things, my favorite sights in this picturesque town and go do them. Get a scone at my favorite scone take-out (butter and jam, please). Drink pink tea in the hotel overlooking the golf course and eat fish ‘n chips overlooking the beach. Walk to the end of West Sands and stand there, still and quiet with Walker’s arms around me. I want to re-enact famous dates of the past, share sticky toffee pudding, watch golfers teeing off, walk to our favorite farm.
But, instead, I find myself wiping smears out of the drawer, organizing light bulbs, pulling out boxes of tools and wires, watching Walker fix things (he’s good!) and searching for market prices of used Econometrics textbooks. Sometimes I look outside and think maybe I should seize the day and get out.
I talk all the time about not wanting to miss life, not to wish for the next thing so badly that I miss what’s here now. Part of me wants to accumulate those epic moments of right here, not miss opportunities of soaking up the salty Scottish air. I want to hoard up beach walks, to stuff them into the nearest pockets of my memory for easiest reach in New York. But I am packing and Walker is taking exams, and there’s little time for all that. Instead, I’m finding something new, something grand: these weeks are their own memory, this wrapping our house up into a clean package and distributing what we can’t take, this is worth saving, too. Walking to the packaging store and seeing five friends on the streets? This is a memory as good as a serene moment watching cows in a soaked-green Scottish field. Plus, I already have those memories; this is new.