We’re nearly there. Not quite, but nearly. Tonight the Punchmobile is parked in the driveway and our home is stripped bare of puppets, paintings and the paraphenalia of decades of family life. A new family is about to arrive to spend a year in our home and we’ve spent every waking moment of the past few weeks packing, cleaning and preparing the house for the arrival of these new tenants and for our departure.
Both the Professor and I feel a little like the Burmese marionette in the photo. She was waiting to be packed away in a trunk for twelve months of storage. The Mexican ‘Day of the Dead puppet also met the same fate. We can’t fit everyone in the caravan.
The whole process of letting go of our lives here in Melbourne has been weirdly traumatic and not at all what I’d expected. There’s guilt and grief and confusion all mixed in with the excitement of setting out on an adventure. This morning I cried as I read a poem that one of our kids had posted on her blog. Packing up a house is more than simply putting objects into storage.