Last night after almost an entire bottle of wine and hours of packing I lay exhausted on the couch. A log burned silently and hotly beside me, Christmas music played through the TV. I'd already packed the afghan so I curled up under throw pillows spooning Digby.
An hour later I woke up tense and cold, and bewildered. I'd dreamed about Rooster. He'd been sitting on the couch and lifted his arms to me wide, welcoming me to sit on his lap. I felt such relief as I let him pull me down into his warm, safe embrace. I knew everything was going to be ok now; I was in his capable arms after all, how could things not be ok?
Something about this sense of relaxation woke me up, stirred me from beyond. This isn't right, I thought. NO. I'm doing this alone.
Then I turned out the lights, left the cats curled on their chairs by the fire and crawled into my own bed ignoring the labeled boxes that have replaced decorations this season.
I move tomorrow.