The bags are out and open. Every clean, horizontal surface is covered. With clothes. With papers. With gear. With stuff.
There are lists. Fifteen of this, ten of that. What to put in which bag. What not to bring.
We ply the littles with movies and snacks. The baby with milk and toys. We are on edge.
You sip a beer, slowly. You won't have another for months.
I look at it all. There will be no boot blackened socks to bleach. No t-shirts to soak the sweat out of. I won't carefully transfer the patches to a clean uniform in order to wash the one you insist you can get one more day out of. How long before I stop bending over to scoop up the pajamas you leave, every morning, next to the hamper? How long before it is real? This empty place in my home, in my heart.
Tomorrow there will be lazy morning coffee. And good food. And wine with dinner. And the beach. And then the next, we will do this. You do this thing that you are called to do. I will be here. Brave. True. Strong.
But not today. Today is packing day.
Today I am undone.