Stepping

It’s the first night it’s been cold enough to use the fireplace and I suspect that we will wake up to frost covered roof tops again tomorrow. As I sit here at my desk as I do most every night, the heat gently wafts at my back and keeps me company while I ponder my options. For once, they are decisions that can wait. They are decisions that aren’t life altering like so many of the ones that have come before this. There is a certain lightness that comes with deciding what bedspread to buy and which boxes to unpack first. It does however, feel like I’ve been waiting a lifetime to be where I am tonight.

It feels almost impossible to believe that I am here in the house that will be my home for years to come. Maybe it’s because it’s been months since I was in a place that was truly my own, or because my life in Vancouver feels like a distant memory, but the hard to believe feeling is difficult to shake.

I don’t know what I pictured for myself when Mark and I talked about me relocating here with the kids. It was only a year ago that we first discussed it and now, looking back I can’t even believe we had those conversations. The further away I get from those moments, the more amazing and courageous Mark becomes to me. His concern for us was always his first priority and it outweighed any fears he had about his own future. Reflecting back, it seems unbelievable how he could have been so strong in the face of such adversity. There are moments in each of my days that I wish I could be as strong as he was.

The excitement of a new place to call home is (at times) enough of a distraction for the kids. They are loving the new neighbourhood with the forest just steps away and a new friend on the street already. I’m starting to feel like this is the beginning of something. Almost like, there’s been a line drawn in the sand and I’ve just stepped over it. It’s taken me months to get here and over 4000kms but this is where I’m supposed to be.

Patiently waiting

As I sit here at my desk I am very aware of how different my life has become. Last year on Thanksgiving I was cooking a turkey for Mark and his brother Chris while they got a game of golf in. It was unseasonably warm and the guys went in t-shirts. It was the kind of fall day that makes you love living on the West Coast. I am often teased for the phrase "It's always sunny in Langley" but it really is the truth. No matter how miserable the rain was, it always seemed to clear around four in the afternoon and our kids experienced more rainbows living there than I have ever seen in my lifetime.

I'm sure Mark suspected that each game of golf may be his last but I really don't think it was on his mind that day. It was a time when there was a lull in his treatment and he was feeling the best he had since his relapse in September. Mark had completed his salvage chemo and was waiting for his counts to rebound. Chris had been staying with us as he did for weeks at a time and Mark was happy to have some 'healthy' time with his brother. The two of them went to Swan-e-set where Mark sufficiently whipped his brother at his favourite game and they came home to find a turkey on the table waiting for them.

I specifically remember how I felt sitting at our table that day. The afternoon was warm and I had had the windows and sliders open all day. The smell of turkey had filled the house and when you went outside you could smell it coming up the stairs. As I sat there I felt very happy with myself to have prepared a turkey for my guy (it was one of his favourite things) and the day felt normal, almost perfect. We sat with the kids, Noah in his high chair and Audrey eating off one of the big 'special' plates and Mark talked about their game in a lighthearted way that was refreshing to hear in his voice.

Earlier that month Mark and I had gone shopping for our new dining room table (very exciting for a woman!) We were tired of having my Dad sit on the step stool when they visited. As we had our turkey that evening I commented on it being our first dinner ever with a guest at our new table and no one had to sit on a makeshift chair. I felt a sense of optimism for our future but then at the same time was reminded that this could be the first and last time I sit with Mark and our family at this new table. Looking back, it's funny how a simple piece of furniture can stir up such conflicting feelings at the same time. Tonight, that same table sits in blankets standing on end in my garage waiting to be moved to our new home next Thursday. It's as though it's been waiting there for me patiently to create new memories.