A couple of days ago, I facilitated the packing up and shipping of Cherished Friend's household possessions, from storage, to his Oceanside.
It went fairly smoothly, all things considered. Hopefully, all will arrive safe and quickly at the other end.
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I am not sure how I am feeling. There was a fair amount of nostalgia floating in the air along with the dust and the chatter of the moving crew. Recollections of Cherished Friend's house that he once had here in my corner of the desert (it was a Good House, a Safe and Quiet Space where I once fed his fish while he was away). Echoes of saying goodbye when he moved from this corner of the desert to a different corner of the desert. Remembrances of our own packing and storing of various boxes and possessions at different times over the past few years, and the mental energy that these past few years have taken from him. It's been hard.
Overarching all, is the realization that as much as I would love to be there to catch the moving van on the other end and help him get sorted and set up and established in his new Abode, I cannot do so. This pains me on a very visceral level. It rolls in to my pandemic-associated grief, and spotlights being unable to go anywhere or do anything or find ways to fill my needs or tend to my own feelings.
I am exhausted and bereft and need a Day Off.
One foot in front of the other. On we go.
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