Can I just hide somewhere, please?

Aside from a delightful lunch at the Public Garden with Katie, which was then followed by a relaxing haircut, today has been one of those days. You know, those days when you want to turn in your grown-up card and retreat into the blissful and socially-condoned irresponsibility of childhood because the details and hard things about adulthood just won’t leave you alone.

So, I had my last appointment with my Puerto Riccan hair magician today. And while my hair, once again, looks like it only does after Roberto’s had his hands on it, it was kind of a sad moment for me. It was the first of the Last Things in Boston–the first thing about my life here that I’ve had to say goodbye to. It made me think about all of the other Last Things that will now start to trickle past in the next two weeks. And it also brought to mind the recurring question: What if I can’t find a hair magician in Atlanta? What if no one there gets my hair? What if the stylists there look at it and only see the limitations of it’s beastly thickness? It’s a small thing, I know. But people, once you’ve had magic done on your hair to make it less ridiculous, how do you go back to normal haircuts. HOW?!

And then, after my haircut, I had a chat with my realtor about more details I have to take care of regarding the sale of my condo here. I don’t want anymore details. There are too many details! Especially when one of those details involves having to call a lawyer to find out if I’m responsible for a $1500 assessment from my condo association to rebuild roofs on two of the other buildings, even though the bill came after we were under agreement and isn’t due until after closing. The short answer is yes, although we’re asking the seller to pay. Our lawyer said not to count on it, that it just doesn’t work that way up here. But, you know, I guess it can’t hurt to ask. Right? Selling real estate is hard. Buying real estate is hard. Doing both at the same time, while also planning a cross-country move to a city you know zero things about is a special brand of crazy. Welcome to my summer.

But the worst thing, the grown-up thing that’s been hovering over me and dripping sorrow is the death of a friend’s beautiful 2-month-old baby boy. He died suddenly yesterday, and though I don’t know the details, the events of my day have been punctuated with the knowledge that 2,000 miles away, there is a crater in the universe, an unmendable hole in fabric of my friend’s life. I wish there was something I could say, some message I could send, but I can’t imagine what those words would be or what language could possibly express this feeling that sits in the pit of my stomach and spreads upward. On days like this, I remind myself somewhat mechanically that I believe in a God who knows when a single sparrow falls from the sky. I remember and make the choice to believe in a God who turns mourning into dancing and sorrow into joy. Who can redeem even this, even this.

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