This is happening:
That truck is almost full, that house is almost empty, and—as excited as I am about the what’s coming next—this whole state of affairs is making me more than a little sad.
I’ve lived in my little house for six years. I know which floorboards creak and how bad a storm has to be for the power to go out. I know that if you want the kitchen to be cool, you need to close every other vent in the house. I know that 375 in the oven is really 400 and to undershoot every recommended cooking time by at least 5 minutes.
I’ve had fabulous times here. Weekend visits with the sister during which we drank way too much, talked about crazy people from the past and didn’t get out of our pajamas. Christmas-cookie-decorating parties. Subtitle parties, where we watched French movies, drank wine and ate cheese and fruit then drank more wine. More barbeques than I can count.
One of my besties—back when we were still just acquaintances—brought me back here after an ill-advised final drink, plopped down in the living room and declared herself too sleepy to drive home. We had breakfast the next morning and I crashed at her house that night. This is where I lived when I started dating the guy who just loaded that truck for me. This is the house I lived in with my sister after college, when we were both grown-up enough to make our own decisions and young enough to enjoy the choices. This is the first house I decorated, that was really my space. All my walls are green. I have eight bookshelves.
I’m excited about the future. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to study something that I’m so passionate about. I’m looking forward to exploring a new city, decorating a new space, putting down new roots somewhere else.
But today, I miss the old roots.