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Word Press can be so bossy sometimes. It just reminded me that I hadn’t written anything yet. The notice was in red with an exclamation point at the end. Did they think that I forgot that I opened this page to write a blog. Maybe they thought that I had  intentionally kept it blank and were not amused by that option? Or perhaps they could sense the difficultly that I was having — and have had the past few weeks — coming up with something to put on this page. Perhaps the red box notice was just a gentle nudge to help me to pull up the words I need to tell this week’s story.

We’re — the cats and me — two weeks into our new home. It’s been a day-by-day nestling into this space. The cats progressed from hiding deep, deep within the closets squeezing their fat bodies behind buckets and boxes and staying there the whole day to, finally, yesterday, reclaiming their favourite sleeping places on the back of the couch for Rose and tucked under the quilt on the bed for Nick. I took it as their official acceptance of this place as home and, perhaps, their way of telling me that they sort-of forgive me for uprooting them from Major Street to this place. I secretly think they’re pleased as punch that they no longer have to climb 13 stairs to get to the litter and back down to get to their food.

So now that the cats are settled and I thought I was too who has a little teary breakdown at brunch this morning? Moi, that’s who. It was raining and I didn’t have much sleep last night and Sarah was talking about her cousin buying a house on my old street and it just tickled awake all of those old feelings of missing my neighbourhood. Well, the feelings aren’t that old since I’ve only been gone two weeks. The problem is that while I definitely feel “at home” in this apartment, I don’t feel the same about this neighbourhood. That’s what I thought about as I walked through the rain this morning after leaving my friends, soaking my feet and umbrella-holding right arm. Poor poor me.

Then, as if someone had slapped my face, I stopped there in the rain and thought about all those folks sitting in internment camps in Texas and Arizona and wherever else they’re stuck not knowing where their kids are or if they’ll ever see them again. And the millions and millions of other refugees who had to leave everything — their home, their families, their treasures, their lives — in order to be free someplace or to stay alive long enough to find that freedom.

Those thoughts put moving up the hill and not liking a Pizza Pizza at the corner into some kind of perspective.