Each night after work, Luke and I have been packing.

The going through what to keep is well annoying. A friend of mine told me “Hold each object for at least two minutes, then you will be able to tell if you you are meant to keep it.”

That’s fine and all, but we would both be dead at the end.

Moving brings out nostalgia. Memories of times with family and friend. Parties and in my case hideous chicken wallpaper, I tore down during my birthday.

You reflect on those who have moved away, and those who are right down the street but still feels like worlds apart.

I lived in this house for over eight years. The second longest, after the home I grew up in.

Attachment to a place comes from connection and the pieces you put on the shelves and walls, like I lovingly placed which belonged to my Dad and my grandparents.

There have been ice jigs in the kitchen, cookouts on the porch and a dance party or two.

Time and places may fade, but memories remain the same.


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