I am clinging to the cusp of new. My room is a train wreck because I don't want to clean it; I just want to move out. Things slowly shift to my grandmother's house: some photographs, a pile of books, a towel. My clothes are all still here, though hardly any are put away. It's hard to move because I've been doing it by hand, a bag or box at a time. I could do it faster, but I just want to pile some stuff in the car I don't have and can't drive and get it over there. I tried to go by bike, but my tire is flat and it's uphill and I don't have anywhere to bungee a box on. So I keep walking and carrying, snagging a lift when my mom is headed the few blocks over. But I'm going.
In between I bake and read. In between I pretend everything works. I want someone to laugh with, someone to hug. All of this is missing. When I say the words "Welcome home," that's what it means. That there is no one.
But still, the leaves outside my window are broad. The windows in this room are what I will miss most when I move to my grandmother's basement. The windows here are glorious. 6 of them, trees creeping into the attic space. Light everywhere. The basement is dim with only a few high windows, although it lets out onto the back porch and a wide backyard. I will need to get out. I will need to breathe the air.
One day I will watch a sunrise. One day I will remember that there's still a chance. Today is not that day.
