I watched you pack up your apartment in a matter of hours it seemed. You posted and re-posted on craigslist offering up the last of your freecycled furniture and managed to turn a profit off the pieces you’d accumulated over the months. I was impressed. And jealous. And sad.
Your ability to take flight, literally, made me feel all the more stifled and tied down. I’m grateful for the life I’ve made but I have too many things.
I have an apartment and it’s pretty and I love it.
I have furniture and it’s heavy and hard to move.
I have clothes that overflow from every dresser and closet and plastic bin.
I love this and I hate this.
The life I’ve made for myself here is valuable and valid. It’s evidence of my existence, of my efforts to create a home.
And yet, watching you climb out of my car that morning, all limbs and luggage, it seemed so unfair.
You are quick to make friends, quick to build experiences, and quick to create stories, but you never knotted yourself to me. You made it easy to pick up and take off and start anew.
You left me behind. Saddled now with not just my life, but pieces of yours; your boxes and our memories and a check to cash when your bank account was full again.