There has been a lot of change in the last weeks.  The hole in a ground remains just that: a hole, but it is no longer my hole.  Our contract expired and we found a different home which we have purchased and moved into.  It is a place to call our own, at least for a few months.

(This is the view that sold us on this house.)

I kept, up until our realtor handed us the keys, expecting something to fall through.  I kept expecting to feel ecstatic when we walked in too.  Home.

On moving day, instead of being intensely excited, I was intensely lonely.  Lonely as I hauled blue bins up stairs.  Lonely as I washed floors.  Lonely as I separated Lego men from dust bunnies in the places where furniture used to be.  The first day in the new house, instead of being giddy, I was edgy.  Angry.  Surprised at that anger.

We moved early November—the same schedule as the Canadian geese’s migration.  From my kitchen window, I look out over bald, beautiful prairie.  On our first day in the new house, the field behind our back yard was full of geese.  Their honking came in droves as the gaggle increased (you read that right.  Gaggle: the technical name for a group of geese.  Thank you Grade 7, thank you.)  Every time I walked past the window I’d look out, seeing their numbers grow and grow.  Mid-afternoon I peeked and they were gone.  The field was bare.  The next day a group of stragglers landed for a bit and then they too left.

The geese and their honking have been replaced by airplanes and their droning.  Apparently we are very close to the military base and can watch the planes do their drills.  I stand at the sink washing dishes while Micah stands on the counter beside me, chubby face and hands pressed against the window.  “Flies,” he chortles beaming at me, “flies!  Vroom!”  He can hardly contain himself.  One after another, the planes take off, circle and land.

(Just for the record, the random Robot costume was 90% off.  I couldn’t resist.)

People have asked me if the noise bothers me.  It doesn’t.  Not since it brings such delight to my airplane-loving boy.  Well, boys.  They both love it.  But it has gotten under my skin a little, this drill of theirs of taking off, circling, landing.  And no sooner do they land then they take off again.  They only really touch down.  It would be better, I think, if they would either circle wider or land longer.  I know they are practicing what is the hardest, the most technical.  And I know it bothers me only because my take-offs and landings are so closely spaced.  My wheels have just touched down and then I pull back the throttle again.  You reach ground safely only to hear, “Cleared for take-off.”  Anyone can circle, yes, but can the 10th landing be as smooth as the 1st?  Smoother?  The turn-around quicker?  What about the 100th?

The anger of mine?  I have a house but it’s not really mine.  I unpack for a few months and while we unpack we talk about repacking.  I hesitate to put holes in the wall.  Someone will rent this space soon.  Wheels down, wheels up.

And then I think it is really terrible to be angry at such a great gift.  A home.  So I strive to be like those geese, two-homed, with a long stretch of air between.