I might look back on this time as one of transition. The chapter representing my life in Dayton not quite closed; the next chapter in Indianapolis not past the chapter title.

I love our new house. I worried in the weeks after the Closing - in itself fraught with eleventh-hour demands and anxieties at the height of last fall's credit meltdown. Had I talked Boyfriend into doing something he didn't want? He would inexplicably break down in tears: "It's all so new,""overwhelming,""chaotic".

Our house was on the opposite side of town from where he had grown up and lived all his life. All of his large family still live there and our discussions had centered on his desire to break free - had he miscalculated this effect?

I was also nervous whether someone who works almost wholly with new construction and its conveniences would be crushed by the idiosyncrasies of an older home. No dishwasher, old cabinets and tiled floors, drafty windows, inherited drapes and unusual wallpapers.

But it's all okay. I watch him wash the dishes, soaking them in one side of the enameled sink. I watch him working at his drafting table in the panelled office with the cork floor, not complaining even when the switch to the overhead light snap-crackle-popped dead. He helped unpack my stash from the storage unit, and found places for my crystal glasses and decanter on the dining room built-in.

I watched him organize paperwork on the dining room table as I scraped layers of wallpaper from the Living Room and entry. As I stood on the stepladder and used a paint roller to smooth on hot water, the room filling with the florid smell of cheap fabric softener and wallpaper glue. Grace watches from her pillow in front of the hearth, the cataracts turning her eyes a distinctive blue, and she sniffs the air.

It's very difficult to leave that world and drive back to Ohio at the end of a weekend.