We have one interested buyer for our home, and one possible house in Fresno that interests us, and my imagination is already off and running.  It can get a little out of hand that way.  Maybe this is the down side of an active imagination.  You open any little door just a crack into the future, and my imagination barrels in and makes itself at home.  I’m already there, in this house in Fresno, enjoying the light pouring through the windows, sitting on the porch, planting things, raking leaves, walking Joseph to the bus stop, inviting students into the living room for a lesson . . .

And obviously it’s a bit early for that.  Slow down.  Take a deep breath.  Let Joseph beat you up a few more times, just to keep you grounded in reality.

But I find myself wondering what the address is, of this place in Fresno.  Some acquaintances of ours are moving to Kansas and we’ve exchanged a few e-mails about our possible interest in their house.  That’s all.  It’s on Huntington Blvd.  But what is the house number?  It doesn’t really matter, but it would be nice if the numbers had a nice pattern to them.  It’s annoying when your address makes no sense.  4369 (our current number) is pretty good, what with the pattern of multiples of three.  I don’t even remember all of our other numbers.  There have been so many.

Which makes me wonder.  Will our next address be the one? Will we actually stay there, for some period of time, feeling as if we have arrived at a place where we belong?  In my imagination, we’re there to stay.  The boys will finish growing up there, and come home to visit there.  The trees in the back yard (who I haven’t met yet) will be my dear friends, and it will be their branches that I gaze up into for the next 20 years.  And it’s all beautiful and harmonious and lovely.

That’s the other thing about imagined futures.  You don’t imagine in the annoying stuff–that floor board that creaks every time you step on it, the click and hum of the heating system that begins to make you want to pull your hair out, the dirty crack in the back step that becomes symbolic of all things not right in your life.

Do we ever really belong anywhere?  I wonder.  Maybe our ancient nomadic roots are too strong.  Maybe humans are always sojourners, seekers, explorers, at heart.  Maybe that’s part of being human.


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