I’m not sure when I’ll get it back, the urge to write, the desire to create (anything). The last year has been confusing. I’m like a dulled version of myself, no controversy, no spark, no spirit. Also no direct pain caused to others. Can I be myself and not cause pain? Can I have passionate opinions without hurting others? Take creative risks? Stop writing about my arid mind?

Perhaps none of this makes sense. I’m not spelling it out.

In a few weeks, we will leave this house, this container for family life, this land of the dead. Versions of us lurk in the corners. They are packed in boxes that we leave out by the curb, pieces of self strangers rifle through, wanting something for free. This is the place where I became a writer, the place where I stopped writing. This is where I drank and yelled, where silences hid pain. Pets lived here, got sick here, are buried here. A brother died here.

We’ve celebrated 18 Christmases in this house. The boy went from toddler to registered voter in a matter of moments. From where I sit, I can see his graffiti sharpied on the fireplace brickwork, the kindergarten scribbles of a boy who had just learned how to write his name. At this moment, he is upstairs. Tomorrow at this time, he’ll be on a plane back to college, while his dad and I will at the other house, hanging curtains, prepping rooms, because on Sunday my mother arrives. One person leaves, another slots into place.

And maybe in six months, my creative mind will return, fed by change and urban breezes.