In case anyone’s curious, I’ve actually kept up with my little experiment of making the bed every single morning beyond October. It’s a small routine, but it’s stuck — which feels like a tiny victory amid the chaos of daily life. Of course, Burger has held to his usual routine too: the bed gets made, and then an hour later he undoes it with his usual gusto. It’s funny and slightly exasperating, but it’s part of the home’s personality now.

Thinking about things falling apart feels almost literal this weekend. Exactly one year ago this weekend I was elbow-deep in our bathroom, tearing things out and living through what remains the most physically demanding demolition project I’ve ever attempted. I remember starting without shoes on — a choice I don’t recommend — and wondering how we’d ever survive the mess and the strain. That memory comes back to me now as we face a very different kind of dismantling: packing up our home to move.

Packing is turning out to be an emotional workout as much as a logistical one. With the move less than a week and a half away, we’ve started to box up belongings, disassemble furniture where necessary, and sort through drawers and closets for the hundredth time. It’s one thing to purge and simplify; it’s another thing to realize each item you pack represents a memory, a small chapter of life that you’re about to ferry somewhere new. There’s excitement for the fresh start, of course, but there’s also a steady current of bittersweet feelings as we prepare to close the door on this familiar space.

Our patio has already shown us how strange it feels to strip a house of its personality. We went from a cozy, furnished space to an empty slab after we sold the patio set during our moving sale because it wouldn’t fit the new place. The transformation was quick and oddly final: one weekend it was warm and lived-in, the next it looked bare and unusually echoing. That visual change made everything feel more real — suddenly the move isn’t a concept on a calendar anymore but a series of shrinking rooms and boxed memories.

To add to the melancholy, winter weather arrived early and painted the patio with dreary skies and wet leaves, making the empty space look even bleaker. Weather has a funny way of amplifying mood: a sunny empty room can feel like a promising blank slate, while rainy, gray days can make the same emptiness feel more sorrowful. We’re trying to stay practical about it — folding blankets into labeled boxes, taping up dishes with care, and reserving a few items for last-minute comforts — but that doesn’t erase the sense of finality creeping in.

We’ll keep sharing photos as packing progresses, mostly because it helps to document the process and because friends have asked to follow along. For now, we’re taking one day at a time: sorting what to bring, what to sell or donate, and what memories we’ll tuck away in the boxes. If you spot a stray tissue on the floor, feel free to hand one over to Sherry — she’s been handling the emotional side with far more grace than I give her credit for, but she deserves a few virtual tissues anyway.

P.S. If you want to see how the patio looked the day before we moved out, we’ve got a collection of photos showing the hectic final packing moments and the very sad, nearly-empty patio. It’s a little chaotic, a little nostalgic, and very real — the kind of snapshot that makes you appreciate both what you lived in and what you’re about to create.