After dinner, my husband and I have established a new summer ritual.

When the day has cooled down, we walk down the block to check on the renovations to our house.

The house is an unassuming 1920s Southern cottage – charming but needing an overhaul.

And fresh new landscaping.

And so tonight we uncoil the garden hose and water. I soak the young saplings and sprinkle the leaves – the oak and magnolia are especially parched from the incessant drought.

The dry mulch glugs down the water.

We will tend these trees, but we’ll never see the expanse of their potential. Isn’t that a lesson in humility?

We bought this place as a downsize, but then felt like we needed to upsize just a little (master bedroom, bath) because it was a tiny bit too tight.

And it’s been over two years of planning and construction.

This is a new beginning for us, like a nascent bed nestled into a larger grove of time that will outlive our old bodies.

A new beginning for us, a nascent bed nestled into a bigger grove of time that will outlive our old bodies.

Our contractor says it will be like we are stepping into a brand new house at the end of July. This excites me, but I know better.

I know we’ll bring everything along with us – we are laden with years.

The memories of our first home in North Carolina:

Being pregnant and wanting to fill every inch of space with life. Our daughter coming and then our son.

And then we outgrew it. So there was a move to Durham, to a bigger, old pink house.

And filling it with friends and family.

And ticking off the milestones – growth spurts and birthdays and Christmases with huge trees. And beloved new pets who were with us for awhile and then gone.

Traditions, old and new.

All of this will be unpacked.

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I think about that expansion of growth and now this contraction of getting older.

And how, in many ways, our needs have downsized too.

Yet I’ve never downsized the need to fill the nooks around us with safety and comfort and joy, and beautiful things.

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So, after watering the trees, I go inside and try to visualize where different pieces of furniture will go. The old couch, recovered several times. My mom’s marble-topped antique washstand.

And my husband’s sleek new lounger that will fit perfectly in the corner.

And then my mind drifts to my dad.

One of the last pieces of furniture that he used was his old recliner. His little apartment got smaller and smaller until it was just the chair and the bed, and that was all.

How little we actually need as physical bodies.

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Our next house will have all of the assists – hand bars in the shower, no second story steps and metal railings leading up to the porch.

True, there is a new cedar hot tub, but it is scaled down. Gone are the days of our son’s late night after-soccer parties.

It’s just me and my husband, a hot tub party of two.

We’ll climb in carefully; we don’t want to risk it.

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One thing I am super excited about is the fact that I will finally have an office/study. My only fear is that now that I have a room of my own I will dry up and never write again.

Sigh.

When the architect asked me about my dreams for the new space, they pencilled in a library, without me even telling them about my writing.

I guess some of my seams (or books) were showing that day.

At any rate, I’m thrilled.

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But mainly, I find myself worrying about balancing our new smaller reality with our actual needs as a whole family.

Will Thomas have his own spot to play? Will Lewis and Laura feel at home?

Or will it be too small for me and Mac, once he’s retired and home (underfoot) full time?

And for myself – will I miss the larger pieces of furniture that used to anchor me in the present?

The desk stuffed with the children’s school projects? The closets of old calendars and journals and Halloween costumes?

Can abundance be found in small spaces?

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Anyway, I salvage what I can and pitch the rest. Similar to what my sisters and I did in my father’s apartment after he died.

And I wonder if my writing desk will be one of my last possessions in the end? Doubtful.

But life is a series of parsing and whittling and curating.

And letting go. Always letting go.

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And I believe, in our lifetimes, our souls inhabit many houses. And we drift between them in memory.

I remember talking to my Dad over the last years, and how articulated his memory was of events from long ago.

It was like his brain was opening up and strewing petals from the flowers of his past. And it felt normal and natural to speak of these things that had never seen the light of day but here they were.

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But today, as I write, I know that I’m simply living here, now, in this cruddy, run-down rental home.

Impatient, stressed about the actual move, and just itching to get on with the packing.

And waiting, with these random thoughts and daydreams – until the new house is ready at the end of the month.

We’ve planned meticulously for this transition, but who can predict the future?

Because after the move – then what?