It's true that I finally melted down yesterday, standing in the midst of the debris of my life, melted into a tear puddle on the floor.

It's true that when my friend called, I answered my phone with the words, "You are so glad that you are not me right now." It's true that she replied, "Really? Because I'm pretty sure I would be glad to be anyone else in the world than me at this moment." And then we laughed. It's like when I was a kid and my brother and sister and I would argue over who was feeling "worser."

It's true that I waved goodbye to the Land yesterday, and that I did so in such a flurry of limbs and papers and financial issues that I almost forgot to blow a kiss.

But it's also true that my Superstar Husband is the most brilliant star in my sky. It's true that he sang love songs to me before I left, that he told me about twenty-six times to drive carefully, and that he took care of the rest of the debris, finishing up the packing that I couldn't even face anymore. He lovingly uncrossed my eyes and sent me on my way.

And it's true that on my way, I found strain slipping off of my freckled back, that when I reached the coast I saw the waves throwing themselves down in glee and thought, "The whole world is my home." It's true that the cliffs were etched against the misty pre-sunset sky like strong-armed guards, and I realized that even transition can be a type of home. That maybe I can let my bones settle into this change. That there is rest for me, there are homes everywhere, and that so many things that have piled on over these last years are now lifted. And everywhere I look there are houses with small people in them, sitting in their seats, walking to their fridges and back, playing card games at the coffee table. We are all looking for the same things.

It's true that we left too late yesterday. That I was not at all prepared, that I fed my kids convenience store white bread sandwiches.

It's true that Kid A has reached the age of constant attempts at reasoning, that he can't let go, now, and let things flow. That he feels the need to check on our progress, say, every two minutes. That he whines a lot about how long it's taking to get there. It's true that this means he is becoming more of a person, and that instead of smacking my head against the steering wheel, I should admire his time-telling skillz, when he plaintively yells from the backseat, "MAMA! IT'S 7:14! Mamaaaaa, it's 7:16!" And ad infinitum until I die.

It's also true that we sang our way through the darkness last night, that we belted out the ABC song, that we transitioned seamlessly into Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and then that I could hear Leafy singing "Winkle Pinkle DAR. Winkle Pinkle DAR," until I thought my heart would break from the happiness and love and rightness.

These things are all true for me. I want to hear what is true for you right now. Do tell.