One day in March I drove to our house in Arlee. The grass was winter-brown but the sun shone on the mountains in the distance and as I walked around the property with Lucille I let go of something, even though I’m not sure what.
Ever since we left and moved to town two years ago, going back to that house has not been easy. It’s probably because of the way we left it, or the way I left it, in the middle of a screaming headache that sent me to the hospital one June night. Four days later I got out of the hospital and went home to our house in Missoula. It wasn’t the way we’d planned it but it’s the way it turned out. Our things were spread over two houses, stacked on porches and covered with tarps. I was too sick to do anything about it. So we lived that summer in mild chaos, slowly putting our lives back together one box at a time.
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