I'm moving. It's official. Christmas in a new house.
Into the room strode a man no older than twenty. Sunken, blood-shot eyes told the all-too-real tale that the weight of reality had sat so heavily on such young shoulders. Hands in pockets (a needed security), the young man shuffled to the center of the vacent space and passed his eyes over the bare walls. Each crack he knew. Each nuance in the paint on the walls, each tear in the ragged carpet, every ding or scrape any piece of furniture had made he knew as though it were himself plastered agains the boards. He breathed in the smell of uncovered dust and cardboard boxes and breathed out again, a slow, paced exhale. Taking a step from his comfort zone in the middle of the room, the man ran his hand along one of the walls, one of his walls. He blinked and brought his hand slowly back to his pocket. They weren't his walls anymore. The carpet he was standing on would be replaced, the scratches and imperfections would be polished up and filled it, and then repainted. He shook his head. "No fair. Not fucking fair!" he muttered and set his knuckles agains the wall, not wanting to all-out punch his former room. Turning, he rested his back against the wall and allowed himself to slide down until he was seated on the grayed flooring. "Just when you think you're moved in. Just when you think it's home.... Time to leave again." He spoke to the walls as if there were ears to hear, friends to listen. The man set his head back against the wall and eyed the popcorn ceiling. "Guess I'm just too damn nastalgic," he said, using the wall to right himself again. Leaving the room, the young man couldn't help but mentally place all the furniture back in the room, all the good times, all the hard times. He saw the furtiture as feelings, events, not as things for comfort. What they were to people spoke more than what they looked like or how coushy they were. The rocker in the corner: the site of many a bedtime story read by Dad. The couch: make-out times, each one special, each one individual. The bed: beautiful dreams, heart-shattering nightmares, lazy Saturday mornings, rushed Sundays. The desk: caulinder of ideas, strainer of thoughts, site of the collapse of worlds, the birth of love, scientific breakthroughs, heartfelt dictations.
Alone, he stood in the doorway. Yet not so much alone in spirit. There was, for a short second, a flicker of something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He turned, flicked out the light, and shut the door.