Sleep recedes to another corner of the room. E's snuffles and snores and coughs under its influence.  I try to breathe with his rhythm. I want a taste of nature's narcotic.

The air conditioner hums, the ceiling fan stirs the air, and in the darkness I know the second hand on the clock is sweeping bits of my life away.

I think about the house we're buying and my stomach churns a bit. Concerns about the foundation. Anxiety over not being present at closing--who can we trust to do the walk through? Who will represent us and explain the paperwork? We've sold houses from a distance but we've never bought one that way.

E's dad died of  ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) in 2001. For reasons I can't explain, I've felt his absence on this trip more acutely than before. E's sister and her husband have four boys, aged 5 to 14 years. They're very active in athletics, and my father-in-law was a sports nut. He would have loved sitting in the bleachers at ballgames and swim meets cheering them on. And I wish he was here for E's mom as she navigates Parkinson's and other illnesses.  She is getting excellent care, but he could give her the type of support none of us can provide.

My mind drifts to milestones that slipped unexpectedly into my summer. Buying a bra for a certain little girl, waking up one morning to notice my son's voice had changed overnight. Realizing that while we slept, he'd crossed some bridge between childhood and adolescence and that the boy I'd kissed the night before was gone forever.

I pull the sheets up to my chin and think of Belgium and Petey (my cat) and the boxes and boxes of items I'll have to go through in order to  downsize enough to make our new home in Virginia comfortable and not cluttered. I mentally start sorting through my kitchen stuff, Christmas decorations. and ponder the fate of beloved toys and books, outgrown but not forgotten.

I think of Di and Peter and the friends I'll leave behind when I move back to America in 2008.  I close my eyes and chase sad thoughts away. I envision future visits to Belgium and trips to Europe. I refuse to accept that once I move back to America, my life will fossilize.

I consider what direction I want to take professionally when I return, how to nurture my creativity, feed my bank account, and use all my skills to best advantage.

A cricket chirps outside the window. The house creaks. My bones groan. I turn my back on questions and wait for morning to lighten my mood.

July 27, 2007