Almost is a word that has so much wiggle room that it is almost meaningless. It can mean anything from “nowhere near” to “just moments from.”

“How are you doing with that project?” I ask a student.

“I’m almost done,” he replies, and depending on the student and what he’s taught me to expect, I understand that to mean “not even started” to “doing final proofreading.”

“How are you doing with that project?” K asks me.

“I’m almost done,” I reply, and that means nearly done or no where near done, but most often it means, “This is taking me a lot longer than I had anticipated or planned for.”

Seven years ago, the Boy was almost here. It was just after we’d gone to bed on a Sunday night that K woke me with, “My water broke.” By about half past eleven that Sunday (Mother’s Day), we were at the hospital. By one in the morning, we were holding E.

For the last few weeks, we’ve felt like we’re almost done with this renovation, almost ready to move Nana and Papa into their little apartment as they’ve taken to calling it. The floors are done everywhere; the power is on; the lights are hooked up; the washer and drier are installed; the sink is almost ready. Yet so much remaining. The bed for Papa sits in parts in our living room, with the headboard and footboard set to arrive later this week. The toilet sits in its box, ready for installation. The shower needs to be completed, and the exterior needs painting. There’s still so much to do, and so little to do.

Tonight, with a little help from the Boy, I got a little more done: the drainage system is 99% complete. We need a new downspout for the back corner, and as such, I’ve yet to make the final cuts on the PVC for the drainage outlet there.

I stuck some PVC in to keep dirt from getting into the system while I filled in the gravel and dirt, but ti’ about 24 inches too tall at least.

It’s relatively smooth, relatively done. Almost — just like every other almost.