Fishing matters a lot to me and my dad.
Not because either of us actually likes fishing - I know I don't, particularly, and I suspect he doesn't either - but rather because it's just...I don't know, it's our way to be together. Out on the water, in the air and the quiet, talking when we want to and throwing a line out into the ocean when we don't.
It matters.
It's so interesting, discovering just how often the scariest moments in life can turn out to be the ones you cherish the most.
We're staying at my parents' place in the city during this interim week, between when we sold our house and when Kendrick graduates, and the second night we were here my son said, "There are two cats here. Wesley is here and Roxie is here, but Simon isn't here because he died." I had told him that Simon died - when I got home in the morning, I explained that I had gone to Nana's the night before because a sad thing had happened and that she had needed me - but I didn't know if it had hit home. And it had.
"Where did Simon go?" he asked.
So...we found a house.
WE FOUND A HOUSE.
Yaaaa! (Oh, let me tell you: there have been tears these past few days. Good ones, because we found a house that we love, and slightly less-good ones, because we have never actually set foot in said house, making this purchase a mildly stressful one. But mostly good ones, because I thought this was going to be impossible, and it very nearly was, and now: house!)
I hate raccoons.
Hate them.
So I figure any day that starts with me crawling around in our driveway scooping up piles of raccoon-destroyed trash bags (including a whole bag of dirty diapers, just for kicks) with my bare hands has nowhere to go but up, right?
Wrong. Because OH MY GOD, what happened next.
