where I don’t live

We had a brief return to Angeltown during which I realized I just don’t belong there anymore.

I can’t put my finger on why. Kiddo#4 had a well-baby appointment (during which everyone agreed  “He’s huge.” The child is simply huge. He’s off the top of the charts for weight and height, and his head circumference is 95%ile. 27.5 inches and 19 pounds 11 ounces. Huge.)

At any rate, the Kiddos wanted to meet with their friends, so I went a little early, dropped them off, ran errands, then did the doctor appointment. But as I drove around, I was in a state of shock: I don’t live here anymore. This isn’t my city. This is just another place on Earth right now.

The two cities are about 65 miles apart, but the drive in felt like it took eight hours; the drive home went really fast. 

I live here now. Except I don’t really, because I don’t know anyone. I don’t know anyplace.

It’s all a muddle in my head. It’s been too soon since we left, and I have no distance on it. I’m not a resident and I’m not a visitor.

I did stop by the old house. We’d found a boxful of stuff that ought to have remained with the house rather than coming with us. The new owner, fortunately, was there. She wanted me to come in, but I had the baby in the car, and I’d rather not. If it was awkward just being in the city, I can’t imagine being in the house. They seem well moved-in, though, based on the front entrance (all two square feet I saw inside the house, plus one window.) Curtains and a good-luck dangly thing and the shadow of a picture frame on the wall.

May God’s blessing be with them and on that house, and on Angeltown, and on our new house. But it struck me today just how strange it was that I was there, and yet I don’t live there anymore.


  1. Diinzumo

    I feel that a lot. I especially get it when I’ve moved to more than one location in the same city. Like here.