The Forget Me Not’s were dead.

Arriving home from a weekend away, I discovered my meagre assembly of potted plants withering and wilted on the balcony. With the faint smell of basil still lingering in the air, I looked at the shriveled leaves and dried dirt with aggravation.

This had been my first attempt at livening up our micro-sized balcony with a bit of greenery. It was our third summer without a backyard vegetable patch and by late Spring my fingers had begun itching to get back into the dirt. But despite my best intentions for fresh veggies, my forgetful “mommy brain” combined with an intense summer heat wave had not been doing the plants any favours.

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On Sunday morning, Alistair and I stayed home from church. He had developed his first “real” cold complete with a drippy, clogged nose and an adorably sad, little cough. So I bundled him up and went for a walk, in hopes that the cool air and bouncing buggy would help clear his stuffy nasal passages.

Surrounded by high density apartments, it’s not uncommon to cross paths with moving vans and stacks of brown, cardboard boxes. Today, I noticed more than the usual share of real estate yard signs advertising an “open house.” As I passed the third sign, a startling train of thought emerged. “For the first time in my life, I’m homeless.”

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