Molt

A quiet wind swept through the apartment this evening; change is picking up speed. I feel in me the prickles of jitters I know so well: the beginnings of shedding skin. The change is slight, the move short, but my couple of weeks in this apartment turned into months upon months, and it is home enough to count. Pack up, clean out, move on. A brand new start appears on the horizon, smiles beckoningly at me. New pavement to accustom my feet to, new sounds to sing me to sleep.

For so many years, I thought this constant motion made me restless, made me unable to commit, to rest, to live. It occurs to me now that it is what makes me free. That I do not perish, at the shaking ground, but that should I jump, I know to land safely on my own two feet.

Omnia mea mecum porto.
All my things I carry with me.
Within new skin, still beats an old heart.