Moving Away

         Stepping into my house, I almost turned around and ran back out, thinking I had the wrong place. The usual place I always came home to now looked totally different with a few spots here and there that just happened to resemble my real house. First, the front door had been completely taken off its hinges. Every wall was naked and empty because all the photos, clocks and painting had been taken down. Neon rubber protectors clung to every doorframe and ledge. In the living room four sweaty guys struggled with our bulky sofa. I was ready to scream, what were all these people doing here? Where was all my stuff? Then I suddenly remembered, we were moving today.

         I watched my life get condensed down into a bunch of little boxes and loaded on to a rickety van. Old things we didn’t use anymore seemed to float up from the basement like long lost, dusty relatives I’d never met before. Everything from Christmas decorations to old furniture to an ancient VCR from my mom and dad’s single days, (yet the true fossil was a record player) came pouring up from the basement in a line longer than Black Friday at Toys R Us.

         Leaning on my dad’s car, I watched all these things play out as I stood all alone, only the fizz of Dr. Pepper to keep me company. Once everything had been loaded, the corrugated metal door of the truck was slid down with a loud clank and click of a padlock.

         Moving is that feeling of driving in front of a huge truck while praying nothing comes out broken. It’s the taste of microwave pizza and fast food in your stomach for the next two days. It’s shoving all unpacked boxes into a big enough closet and slamming the door because you don’t think you can unpack another box. Then you open it again two minutes later to search for your bike lock.