I feel pangs of sadness that Alba won’t have clear memories of our home here and and that we may never step foot inside our old house again. But we will always feel a connection to the mountains.
I already miss the cold wintry nights cuddling by a roaring fire, warming our tummies with hot soup. I’ll miss standing on our balcony looking over the rises and falls of hazy blue mountains. We’re so high up sometimes a cloud would wash right through us and chill our bones. I’ll miss walking to the end of the street, trekking through wilderness until we arrived at our rock. It overhangs the valley and we’d have picnics there, feeling like we’re watching over the whole world.
I’ll miss laying in bed feeding Alba and reading, looking out the window now and then as the eucalyptus trees sway with birds in their branches. I’ll miss our cozy little ghost town, walking to the train station in the peacefulness of dawn before we had a car. Feeling a kinship with all of the other mountainfolk we’d pass. I’ll miss bringing home overflowing baskets of local produce from the co-op and garden and spending hours cooking in our big open kitchen. Most of all I will miss this- the breathless, absolute silence. Only a rustle of leaves in the wind, softer than a whisper against a backdrop of quiet.
This is our first real home, and somehow we know this is the right time to say goodbye. And so, on to more adventures we go.
sling by sakura bloom