It's a funny thing to find a home.
While I've been in school, I've moved so much. Every nine months or so, I've picked up my little life and moved it across streets and down blocks. I've smoothed sheets on so many new beds in new rooms in new places. I've created my own home with stacks of books, walls of art and photos, piles of clothes, and trash cans full of apple cores. With clean kitchens and enough space to breath, I thought I could feel comfortable almost anywhere. And I have--I love those little rooms that I've made mine.
I thought home was here, in me. That my stacks of stuff pale next to all the things I have hung up inside. That place was almost irrelevant.
But last night I packed a suitcase for a little vacation, and I thought of how I'd be packing everything in just a month or so. I'll pull the unworn socks from my drawers and disassemble that little white bookshelf. I will take all of my stuff away from the tree-lined streets and away from the bumpy roads with hidden stop signs. I will leave the hellish winters and the frozen yogurt places and I won't see Y mountain from my window.
I would just wrap it all up in bubble wrap if I could, and tuck under my elbow and into my ribs.
I'm all about moving forward, but I'll live off of this place for years I expect.