Trudging through the snow toward the moving truck I am filled with have tos.
Have to unload.
Have to get gas.
Have to return the 17-footer that we’ve taken to two loads to the storage space in the next hour.
I lean forward, accentuating my slightly bent posture.
My lower back groans.
Then I remember to breathe.
As the snow licks my face, I remember the snowfalls of my childhood.
How Mike, Jon and I would play for hours in the freshly fallen white stuff that, when it had a certain texture, was perfect for snowball fights.
Memories of the Blizzard of ’78, when snow fell for 29 hours but Mom still sent us to school, reemerge like an old friend.
I think of the first time I understood that snow and biting cold are not inevitably associated and reflect on how the color of my hair near my temples resembles the descending powder.
I remind myself that the previous morning at 10:00 a.m. we had moved nothing.
With the willing help and strong backs of Aidan and his lifelong friend Tommy, we’ve braved the storage bin into which we poured the contents of our four-bedroom home in the frenzied days before our home sale and next-day departure to Santiago.
I am grateful for the closer alignment between our values and our living conditions.
I feel my excitement for the year that is as fresh as the pristine snow all around me.
I slow down.
I straighten up.
I feel the snow crunch underneath my feet and am grateful for the ability to walk.
The cool, descending snowflakes lap my face like a friendly dog.
I arrive at the back of the truck more peaceful than before.
We continue moving into our new home.