The youngest child has moved into her new life.
We schlepped her belongings across the state and into a vine covered dormitory, up the stairs through a throng of wide-eyed freshmen women and their families, down the long hallway, and finally deposited at the end room with two roommates and their hoards. The room looks out onto a quiet, almost cloistered, courtyard with old trees and concrete benches, surrounded by carved stone buildings.
It’s a quiet, beautiful place that I’m glad of. But I do wish it weren’t so frightfully expensive.
We spent perhaps an hour cooperatively setting up the space, and then two more in frustration getting computer and internet connections into working order. We built futons, arranged shelves, positioned what must be the largest tv ever to sit in that room, fussed and fretted over trivia and ephemera. They they fed us lunch, herded us into a communal prayer, dispersed us to the re-assurances of faculty advisors, and then kicked us out.
The days here have been weirdly quiet since. We have regular contact with our child, but the trash and chaos of life has abated somewhat, as the confusion and mayhem and detritus of our daily existence are now entirely dependent on the ramblings and forgetting of two aging partners… Our messes simply do not move very fast, or with much purpose. We take care of pets and plants and wonder why it feel so strange to be in our own house.