For months – OK, years – I watched the tightly wound rows of two braided throw rugs pull apart. One under the kitchen sink. One by the back door. Each time someone stepped on them, the tears grew longer. And each time I tossed the rugs in the washing machine, I silently swore I’d stitch the rows back together. But I kept putting it off. By now the tears were so large that my favorite rug, shaped like a heart, was unravelling from the inside out, threatening to come apart in two pieces. Finally I could stand it no longer.
“What’s for dinner?” my husband, Dana, asked after work this week.
“Hardboiled eggs,” I said.
“And?” He looked at me funny.
“Just hard boiled eggs,” I said.
Everything was going perfectly with our house renovations, just in time for our big move this weekend. Finally! After a month of working double time, my husband, Dana, and our older boys had nearly finished laying down 1,200-square-feet of pine floors. I’d finished cleaning the mouse droppings from the cupboards, sweeping cobwebs from the windows, and painting rooms. We were on the downhill stretch of sorting, tossing, and packing up our home in Bath.
Once a world explorer, in my younger days I eagerly spent a year living in Australia, a semester studying in Israel, and three days perusing the English countryside on an extended layover as I caught trains and begged lodging to visit legendary literary haunts. I even spent a month traversing East Africa—solo—on a whirlwind journey to adopt our daughter, Ruth.