Photo by Alexander Mils on Unsplash
Liminal space: a location which is a transition between two other locations or states of being.
5.30am. A blanket of darkness covers our bedroom, tucked into every corner. There’s no sound except my own thoughts. “I’ve almost finished packing the bedroom, the lounge and the dining room. The study is well on the way. The bathroom will be easy. But the kitchen!”
Despite my turmoiled mind, I’m not unhappy to be awake at this hour. I love the quiet, weightless zone between night and day. I'm like a feather drifting through air in this liminal space.
I get up and wander sleepily past the full boxes lined up in the hallway and dining room. I’ve left a little gap at the top of each one for those last-minute things that need a space. The boxes are numbered.
“How will we know what’s in each one?” Barnard asked yesterday.
“There’s a list,” I replied.
He smiled. “Of course there is.”
I switch on the jug while the animals begin to circle. Wanda possessively guards the bowls of cat food on top of the chest freezer, while Axel meows plaintively from below. I take pity on him and and place a bowl of food on the floor.
By the time I return to bed with my coffee, the darkness has lifted a little, leaving behind a black-white light in the window panes.
I reflect on the weekend that’s been; a trudging routine of packing, resting and packing again. We’re breaking down our beloved home room by room. Soon it will be just a house again.
It hasn’t bruised my heart as much as I thought it would. Packing up the dining room, for example, was easy. We hardly use it, so the emotional impact was about the same as giving a barely-worn jumper to the charity shop. But the large, built-in cupboards were full.
So many glasses! And platters and bowls and cups and plates and half-empty bottles of alcohol. It took a whole roll of bubble wrap and another of packing paper, along with tea towels, pillowcases and Barnard’s clean shirts (we’ve mostly used the dining room to fold the washing) to wrap everything in. Hopefully nothing breaks.
The house is dirty as well as untidy. We‘ve stopped caring about how it looks. Soon we’ll have to scrub and wash and wipe and dust every single surface before the property manager does her final inspection. Cleaning it now seems a waste of effort. The oversized cockroaches have been in the bathroom long before we stopped vacuuming; we think they come in through the gaps in the weary wooden window frames that were installed in 1912. The owners have “big plans” for the place, our property manager gleefully told us. We’re happy for them, but a little saddened by the idea of the home we’ve loved being changed beyond recognition.
The light is rising now and through the windows I can see the outline of the next-door neighbours’ chimney and the swimming pool fence. Axel is sitting on the window sill, his eyes shining like zombie pupils as the light from the headlamp I’m using to write illuminates his ginger face.
Our new home in Masterton was built in the 1960s.
My brother changed out of his tidy clothes before crawling under the house to inspect the insulation and whatever else builders need to check.
He emerged almost as clean as he entered, reporting that “someone’s spent a lot of money down there”. He gave the entire house his full seal of approval; a relief, given the scary amount of money we’ll be handing over on settlement day.
The inside of the house is also well cared for, with the potential to add value by covering up the bland wallpaper and the brown varnished doors. It has four bedrooms, a large living area, a sunny conservatory, the requisite man cave in the garage, and lots of storage. It occupies a corner section on what appears to be a quiet street. We don’t think it will be our forever home; more of a “pretty damn good for now” home. I’m looking forward to getting my hands on the garden and vege beds, exploring the neighbourhood and having a wider choice of shops and cafes in the city.
Meanwhile, the garden at the Card House has produced a few departing gifts. The copious choisya ternata bushes are covered in small white flowers for the second time this year, and while I was picking lemons I spotted dozens of green furry balls on a nearby tree. After posting a photo on Facebook, I was advised they’re tree strawberries.
“They taste awful until they are bright red,” Brenton advised. “Then they go off almost immediately. The red ones are awesome. The yellow ones taste like evil.”
6.50am. The light of the new day has tidied the blanket of darkness away. The trees outside are turning green and I can make out the shiny brass
hinges on the window frames. The air feels a little cooler and the world a little louder.
I turn off the headlamp, slide down into bed and enjoy an extra 10-minute nap before I have to get up. I’ll leave this liminal space soon enough.
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