Paul got back last night, and we have now entered into our final week as a household of three. Next Sunday he'll take the bus back to the city, saddled with as many bags as he can carry, and move into a bedroom in Park Slope. At the end of the month, when his sitting room becomes available, he'll return to Portland, load up Tom's truck with his desk and chairs, and they'll drive the furniture to Brooklyn. Already, he's cadged a job interview for a theater tech-assistant opening, so maybe, maybe, things are falling into place for the boy.
This week will be an uproar as P packs for Move A and breaks down all of his larger stuff in his/my room for basement storage until Move B. The three of us are pleased (i.e., relieved, emotional, elegiac, grateful, eager, nervous) that a version of what he hoped for actually seems to be happening. But this double move means that the transition will stretch out for at least a couple of months, the Alcott House does not have a whole lot of flexible storage space, I am going to have almost no furniture left in my study after he takes what was originally his . . . which is to say: we have work ahead of us.
But I'm not going to think about furniture today. Instead, on this rare day without rain, I'm going to finish mowing the grass, pull out broccoli plants, tie up tomato plants, dead-head sunflowers, yank up weeds, and such.