Tired. I am that. Our sleep here in the apartment has been sort of more like long, crappy naps. That sounds like me complaining and I don't want to be that chick. The insurance sent us a 50 page report and estimate on our smooshed house. That needs my attention. I don't want to see my house on paper. The contents of it all listed in black and white. Seems so simple, you can tell me exactly how big the windows are in my half bath, how much the molding around those windows were, depreciate the value over the amount of years. And eventually there is a price on that room.

It makes sense, that's how it's done. The report doesn't note the price for the sharpie marker drawing my daughter scrawled when she was three and a half right by the front door. I kept it covered with a door mat. But when I cleaned, and I took up the rug, I get a little visit from my four year old girl's disobedience. It was a smiley face because she liked her new house. That isn't written in the report because why would it be there?

The hardwood floor was scuffed, as well it should be. My son's matchbox cars had an entire roadway mapped out on it. I will get the depreciated value for that as well. It doesn't matter. 

We are safe. We are here. I know the process of getting back into a house will be a long one and I guess I haven't really been honest with myself about what losing the house actually is. It's not a tragedy. It's not something to mourn. But maybe it is just a sad difference. 

Work has to begin in November. Funny that is when Poughkeepsie comes out. Tearing my home down while finally holding story up. Crazy month. 

 Is this a blog post or me just unloading? So many things to do everyday and I never just say goodbye to that house. I can't yet. 

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