Empty Echoes: the weirdness of nothing

Bee’s room is totally empty save for the curtains. We’ll take them when we go, leaving behind the curtain rods, but they provide some buffer against the heat of the day. Since it’s hit 100 degrees each of the last few days, this buffer is welcome.

It’s felt empty in there for a while. Bee left in early June, taking all their stuff and saying goodbye. There was one poster left on the wall, a chair, a rug. Clothes hangers in the closet. The bed. The difference, though, between feeling empty and actually BEING empty is phenomenal.

From this.

To this.

The room echoes. There’s nothing dampening sound. It’s hard to walk quietly even when barefoot.

That term “echoes” has all kinds of meanings. The echoes of sound, yes, of course - that one is hard to ignore when it’s hollow and tinny and reverberating any time you step in the room. But it’s also the echoes of time. Close my eyes and I see the crib in there, and the futon, where we could snuggle with books and love.

Marge with baby Bee, on the futon in that room

Different stages of everything. Baby to toddler to elementary schooler. Crib to single bed to loft bed. Painting the walls with bright polka dots of varying sizes, a surprise while Bee was with grandparents in Vermont - and then Bee being old enough to paint over those with a friend one weekend with giggles late into the night.

The title of this blog post isn’t particularly accurate, at least not the first and last words. The room may be empty of things, of stuff, but the echoes of a life well-lived are all around.

May the energy left behind infuse the new inhabitants with love and laughter.

(and if you catch a skink for the first time ever? Hope it doesn’t bite you!)

PS. Update. We’re renting a truck and moving ourselves. Just in case you were wondering.

PPS. We pick up the truck 2 weeks from today, if you’re reading this on Tuesday.