wwjl?

Yesterday, with the help of a few strong and generous friends, we moved seven blocks east.

The new place is way better.  For starters, we own it.  Plus we had the floors redone and we're not in the basement anymore.

But I'm concerned for Jesus.

Our apartment has the perfect little nook for my Mexican hombre.  (We met in Oaxaca amidst this crowd of deities.)

But where will he live now?  No place in our new flat seems worthy.  I have half a mind to leave him here in his wee alcove, but what if he loses more than the two hands that were pulverized in his rocky transport from Mexico to Canada?

And how could I leave his smoky, long-lashed eyes behind?  My hands are tied.

Pack your bags, Christo!