I'm still in mourning over the loss of utopia but I really don't feel like I can share that with anyone. I mean, I still contend it had everything to do with the place- the land and nothing to do with the god forsaken frigging hotel sized house the husband ruined it with. Yes, I am still bitter knowing that if he had stuck even remotely close to our original budget we would likely own it outright and I would be sitting on that porch right now complaining about how red the town is and how ridiculously high the property taxes are. But, I'm not. I'm here in the hellscape of new town, which is 9 years old town already, and instead of watching the sun go down over the over the dam ad still evening waters, waiting for a heron or eagle to fly by from the safety of my bug free screened in porch and listening to the water lapping up against the shore I can sit outside and wonder what the weird smell is and listen to the idiots driving 45 mph down our 25 mph street.
That's not why I sat down to write. What I sat down to write is that there is one time of the day when the wound of selling utopia opens a bit for me. It happens if I am outside right before sunset, that time when the sun is so low it only shines on the top of the trees. That was the time I often found myself in the outdoor shower up at utopia, my absolute treat and favorite part of the summer. I'd stand in the outdoor shower with the hot water steaming on me, and look up at the pale blue sky and watch distant airplanes flying so high over head that I couldn't hear them, but they'd be bathed in light from the sun and look white and gleaming as they silently sliced through the sky. Here I can see the same things when I look up at the same time. It's weird. But I'm not in an outdoor shower, and when I look back down I see the crooked ugly plastic fence my nasty neighbor DYI put up in what can only be described as a bold attempt to lower his property value.
I almost choked and fell to the floor when Evan visited last and I overheard the husband telling him that we'd probably move to a condo somewhere after new town. I was shocked. Putting me in a condo is akin to denying me the ability to breathe. That's not going to happen. I had to remind the husband that he isn't going anywhere because I'm not replacing all 18 of his medical specialists who have been following him for up to 12 years by now. There isn't a chance I'm starting that process over. He's dying here. Then I will get to go wherever I want for myself- and it will not be a condo. I very desperately want to live somewhere with a breathtaking view. I don't know where that place might be, but when I find it it'll be just what I was looking for.
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