The Chalkboard

So, all the conversation is over and, evidently, a few of the starter rules are written on the big wall in the kitchen we painted with chalkboard paint years ago to be trendy, yet practical, while a box from the nice people at Holy Trainer waits on the table.

I sit in an airline lounge in New York waiting for one more flight to take me about three hours south to a new, open, revised situation.  I always thought my stomach would be in a knot over this, but, oddly no.  The emotions of the last week have made me tired, but hungry (in all senses, at least I got upgraded so I get food).

It will be well past bedtime when I get home and, since I enter the house from a garage behind it, I literally come in equal distance from the kitchen with my fate or the stairs leading to our bed where Axel should be.

I’m wondering which direction I will go first?

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