Sunday, October 7, 2001

 

5:35 a.m. Sometimes, all you have left are the words. Sometimes, there are no words ... and sometimes, sometimes ... there are.

The world on the other side of yesterday seems so far away now, and yet here we all are. Flat on the surface of today. There is a life to be led. There is smoke on the television. There is milk in the fridge.

My family is safe, and my gratitude for that has left me fragile with fear. My family is safe, as safe as can be.

And now that nothing will ever be the way it was, I'm sitting here, pre-dawn, wondering what I should do next.

Yesterday -- the one with the capital "Y" -- that yesterday has changed everything, even what we thought was everything. The smaller yesterday -- the one that was merely another Saturday, just yesterday, changed our little lives more than a little bit, and that's why I find myself here at the machine looking for words instead of sleeping peacefully.

Suddenly, we're under way. Probably. Pretty much for sure. Really -- yesterday I printed out a rental application and took a deposit and we all shook hands and agreed on a date: November 1.

That would mean that we are out of here by then. That much I know. As for the rest of it -- all the nearly 3,000 square feet of it and the few days between now and then -- all that ... that's why I'm awake, you see.

It's one thing to move, of course. It's another thing to move when you don't exactly know ... well, anything.

That's why I'm writing. It's the only thing I know for sure and it's the only thing I know how to do and it's the only thing that can save me now.

See the pretty boat?

Stay tuned ...