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Breathe. Stop. Let it sink in.
My room is a mess of small clutters. Papers, cables, boxes filled to the brim but not yet sealed; never sealed. Could I ever seal them? I’m getting whiny and should stop.
Move-out is in eight and a half hours. Dad will come by with a truck from the store and give me an encouraging hug before getting to work. I can’t expect much from him, but I can expect something, and it’s more than Mom will offer.
The walls are bare; painted a dusty light-blue, the wall along my bed–at my back–cluttered with small cards, a poster, train tickets. I should take these down, but I won’t, not yet, not until the very last hour. I will carry them with me, and these walls, and this dust, and this oppressive air, and the sourness between the woman who is my mother and myself.
