My life exists in three pods and two trucks. Except for the Hawaiian girl and the corn snake. They are being housed by the realtor.

Yesterday, we said good-bye to our home of ten years. The one where I raised my kids. Fed the neighborhood. Met the Montgomery County police and my fiancé. The one with the large hole in the backyard that is now filled in for the new owners. The one with neighbors that best Mayberry. The one that housed the loud pug and the black lab, better known as “the beast.” The one that snowed us in – on more than one occasion. And lost power the same number of times. The one with the open door and the unlocked windows. The one that secretly holds my daughter’s evolution via the layered paint colors – from hot pink to turquoise to brown. The one with crickets and annual Halloween parties and my son’s culinary artistry left in the cracks of the kitchen floor.

Yes, we moved out to move on. We pulled away, looking as if we were the second act of the “Beverly Hillbillies” – broom handles, bicycles and one large gas grill spilling out the edges of my fiancé’s diesel truck. Hardly a showing of Washington’s finest.

Hopefully, at some point soon, we will take root in our new abode. Meanwhile, we camp at a hotel while our whole life is contained in three pods and two trucks. Over fifty years of living and it all can be enclosed in three pods and two trucks. I guess all we really need is what we have inside and what we have between us.

At least, I have a toothbrush and two pairs of shoes I can alternate wearing to work this week. The high heels are somewhere. Stuffed in one of the pods, I am guessing.

My eyes water and my heart bursts. Three pods and two trucks. I am grateful to be on life’s grand adventure.

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