I'm having an intense burst of sentimentality about moving, which hasn't even begun yet. But- this is the house where we've been for five years, the house that I brought Thomas and the girls to as new babies, the place where we lived with Stuart. Every time we move I feel like a snail taken out of its shell, except without the bit where I die, because you can only push metaphor so far. I am intensely physical about my spaces. I don't feel home until I automatically reach for things where they are now, until I breathe in in different rooms and can identify them by smell and the feeling of the air. I love the community we have here (hi, Jocelyn! I know you're reading this!), and I'm dreading going through the years-long process of meeting and learning about the neighbours.
Geoff and I spend part of every day telling each other the good things about moving, as a bulwark (at least on my end) against the sadness. "Hey, we'll be close to a Target! The LCBO (the store for wine and general alcohol) is only eight blocks away! Hey, there's a park within walking distance!". And it's good, and there will be good things about it, but until we go I'm going to be prone to bouts of touching the walls and crying as I remember the sunlight on the bricks of the chimney as I held Thomas the week after he was born.