Not with a bang but a wimper

Dear Universe -

Are you a regular reader here? I like to think so. If so, you should know, there went my house. It's not mine anymore. It belongs to some nice people who seem to do a lot of good deeds and who work for non-profits. I don't know if they recycle, but they seem decent. And eager.

Universe, I am exhausted. I can haz sleep now? For a month or more?

It's only been 4 years and change in this house. Not much in the scheme of, well, you. But it's my daughter's whole life. We made her in China, in the most clinical sense, but she made who she is here. She learned to talk and to walk and to annoy the ever-living shit out of me, as well as to make me giggle like a preschooler. And we made another life-potential here, but that one got stuck in a fallopian tube. I wrote a mediocre dissertation here. I fought with my husband and my parents and my girlfriends here. I loved all those people here. I made my friends play Wii games on New Year's Eve. I made them lots of chili and made them root for the Steelers. I watched Andre Agassi's last match. I made a lot of promises. I made disastrous carrot muffins once. I also made some Thanksgiving dinners and woke up to Christmas morning. I spent a lot of hours burning my crotch with a laptop, making internet friends. I made a lot of syllabi. I made travel plans. I made decisions. I made some bad decisions, but I made everything I recognize as my adult life right here.

I made, I made, I made.

But not 'I am.' If, Universe, you have some free energy, help me remember over the next few weeks that it's not that I am this space. I just made it something. And I can make the next one something. And I can let the next one make us into something a little older, maybe a little fatter, but still recognizable.

Now: do I dare to take a nap? Or do I have to start braving boxes again?