In a box downstairs is my new bedspread. My old Tweetie Bird sheets are in the attic.
Outside in the driveway is my new car. My old Toyota is loaded down with moving boxes and furniture.
All this is happening so I can leave.
Right now, I remember the way I wanted to be fifty different people when I grew up and how my mother encouraged every single path. I remember my dad erasing each wrong answer on my math homework and writing the right answers in my memory as a lesson. I remember my brother loving being a child and the baby signing ‘hold me’ with his clenched palms and scooting diapers.
All this is commemorating so I can leave.
The time I drove my brother’s dirt bike into the back of my dad’s Jeep. When I came home at midnight and my mom was sitting on the couch. My first speeding ticket. Catching bugs at the pond. The senior prom. My mother’s face when I graduated. The day I learned to ride a bike. When I met my best friend. Visiting ten states in seven days. Drinking too much hot chocolate before a cross country race. Showering for two straight hours. The third time I flipped a four-wheeler. A letter to tell me I’ve been admitted to college. Laughing on the roof. The time my brother decided to raise chickens. Driving to the hospital on my birthday when my friend broke his arm. The two cats asleep at my feet. Writing letters to the tooth fairy. Making the Sweethearts team. A house I’ve called home. Where I bought my first journal and wrote a story. This blog.
All of this.
I’m not ready. I’m barely out the door.
But it’s time to leave.
by emily 