I moved out of my childhood home almost one year ago.
When I started packing and it was something new, terrifying, kind of sad and yet oh so exciting. I had never moved before, I lived in the same home my whole life, stayed in the same bedroom as long as I can remember.
I put off starting to pack until about a week and a half before moving for two reasons.
First – I like things to be really organized and am somewhat of a perfectionist. So no, those young adult fiction books cannot go in to my children’s books box! Oh how much easier life would be if I were not a crazy person.
Second – The thought of putting twenty one years’ worth of things into boxes seems rather sad.
But eventually, I slowly packed away, box by box, my childhood, teenage years and young adulthood.
Since that first packing experience I have packed up and moved two more times. Once temporarily with my best friends and finally to my own apartment. My own space. My new home.
But with each move the memory of that first move was still fresh in my mind.
Each time I became less and less organized. The last time I moved I knew that I was going to unpack almost immediately. Even as I was still moving boxes Emily was unpacking my kitchen things for me. Filling my cabinets with my dishes, my few baking supplies, and my abundance of mugs. Kaitlin helped me unpack boxes and boxes of books a few days later, fitting them on shelves where ever they would fit.
There was no time to forget which boxes my favorite books were in or where my only whisk was.
This last time, had somewhat of a beautiful finality to it. I knew I was home. This was the place that I had been looking for.
I know that it is not the last move of my life. I would like to leave this town. I will travel. I have dreams of a house in the country, with lots of bedrooms for guests, a garden, chickens, clothes lines right outside my ground level laundry room, a cow, and a kitchen with double ovens for the Thanksgivings and Christmases I would like to one day host. I know that dream is a long way off and possibly will stay just a dream. I digress.
The first time I moved, I packed slowly (until Emily came and helped me.)
I remembered the sleepovers had in my room, the secrets that were spilled while lying in bed in the wee hours of the morning. The plans that were made. The clothes that were tried on. And the hours of laughing that had filled it.
I thought of the time I found close to 10 earwigs in one night and the countless spiders dad had removed for me and the time I swear I saw a centipede and nobody came down to help because they didn’t believe me (No matter what anyone says there was a centipede in my room!)
As a packed my books I thought about the books I cried through, laughed about and stayed up far too late finishing.
I am thankful that I was able to live in the same house from birth to age twenty one and that no matter what happens that will always be my first home.
I was thankful for the first house I moved into after that, even though it didn’t work out well.
I am thankful for the friends that opened their home to me.
And now I am thankful for my apartment and the home that it is.