I scramble to my feet and rub my knees. They’re waffled! The white-ridged floor tiles I’ve been kneeling on glare at me. I tip the last box upside-down and shake it empty. Twenty other boxes stand beside the door, their contents now arranged around our latest home.
What a life, I think. Forever collecting and filling wretched boxes, carting them halfway round the world, just to get rid of them again. Dave and I should be retired in Scarborough, like my sister Hazel and her Barry.
Dave’s a geologist with Find It International Exploration Co. But what’s he ever found, besides me? And yet, every time he comes home smiling and says they want him in Timbuktu, like a fool, I agree! How many times have I swaddled our precious stuff in bubble wrap? Ten, fifteen, twenty? Why are we still carting Indonesian wicker, Mexican pots, Turkish rugs, Mother’s chipped china, and all these bloody rocks around with us?
I sigh, long and deep, remembering the first move, when we stuffed all we owned in a tin trunk, picked up the baby and went to Jamaica. At least the kids and their gear are gone now. Everybody finally in college. Yes, Dave, you’ve promised, this is it, the last move, the last post. No more farewells, ‘keep in touch,’ ‘we’ll miss you!’ No more welcome meetings and gut-wrenching, ‘hi everyone, my name is Sally. I’ve been here two weeks. I like to read, play bridge and work out.'
» another story
» back to information
other story pages » 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
|
