Right now, we have a bedroom dedicated to storing the puzzle we're working on. Another bedroom is just laundry drying. An office upstairs contains a blow-up mattress and an old rug. We move the rest of our stuff in on Saturday, when, I assume, I will find our plates in an unlabeled box. We've been eating all our meals out of the same three bowls around a card table in camp chairs for almost three weeks. I'm not complaining. I can't believe we get to live in a city where we've already made and begun to make friendships. I can't believe we get to live in a big house with guest rooms! I can't believe how many people we're going to be able to host for dinners, or for a weekend, or much longer! I can't believe how yellow our kitchen is.
All our books are in boxes, still, and the bookshelves waiting to be wedged into vans from various quadrants. We live in meanwhile, and there's something serene and sad about how empty the house still is. We don't know who will share it with us, or when. We don't know how full it will get, or how empty. We're hoping. And hope can fill a house.
