Packing

Packing is not a peaceful experience. It stirs old memories that should be left to rest; it takes a familiar place and makes it strange. The act of packing, for better or worse, makes future situations definite.

My parents separated several years ago. Since then my father remarried a woman that, lets just say, I do not see eye to eye with. Every time I have to go visit them, I wait until the last possible moment to gather my things, because before then, the trip is just a plan; a maybe. Not until the car is loaded, is it truly reality.

My reality became clear Thursday morning when I commandeered the living room and started packing away my precious material items. All the decorative nic-nacs I have carefully collected from the few places I have traveled to; the little things that have come to represent my personality, all gently put away. My familiar room looks so strange; so lacking in character.

Well, until I feel like writing again,

college nobody