June 6, 2016. Journal entry.

Winding down work.  Most loose ends knotted.  House on the market; the agent’s sign hangs tall at the bottom corner of the lawn.

Mapped out my packing plan between now and moving day.  Scheduling dinner dates, drink gatherings, letmeseeyouoncemore times.
It will be weird not going to marching band rehearsals; weird not witnessing the steady subtle growth and transformation of willowy summer students into mature and bossy, confident swaggermeisters.  Even the mousiest of newbs finds their moxie in a few short weeks.  And, their music.  I am already missing that.
It will be strange not waking my teengirl.  Three times before she rockets, swearing, late to the shower or straight to the car, hair in a bun, scrambling for a bagel, barking for cash, a tornado to the driveway.  Though I’ve not done this since late January.  We had words and, frayed end of my parenting rope, I suggested she try her attitude and disrespect on her father and his wife, and she left the very next day.  She never returned.  The snark turned to venom and rage full hate.  The abrupt shift in our relationship remains a blow.

September could still feel odd, with no child of mine near or even wanting closeness.

Change…at the bottom of my purse, in small piles on the dresser, filling a squat pickle jar on the bookcase.
She graduates just under three weeks.  I am “banned” grom her life, and it is hard to breathe without a small hitch in my chest.
They say it will be fine.  But when.


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