It's a beautiful fall-ish day here, sunny and just cool and breezy enough to be autumnal. A friend gave me a fresh apple today. Our yard is full of the smell of fermenting grapes. (Sure, Cook made some juice, but there are still a LOT on the vines.) The girls have a month of school behind them and are settling in.
We haven't yet figured out where all our stuff goes now in the new house configuration, so things still feel a bit unsettled here. We're also still getting used to having Duchess gone. We're glad she's out there in the world, as she should be, and she seems to be thriving (if grumpy about Midwestern humidity), but we also haven't quite shaken out into the new triangular normal.
I've also apparently entered a stage of life where I keep being surprised by how much time has passed. Cook and I have now been married for 22 years, which means that our marriage is probably graduating from college and getting a job. We've lived in our house for 12 years. Somebody at work recently referred to a mild local political kerfuffle that happened a decade ago, and I realized that while I will never be a full-fledged Portlander,* I've logged nearly 17 years of my adulthood here. Somehow. And somehow I have friends here whom I've known for a decade or more. I recognize that this is how time actually works, but it still boggles my mind.
* This requires at least being born here yourself, and ideally having at least one parent born here as well.
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