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.
I pause too often, to sigh and wander and despair; I’ve lost the skill that is patience, and persistence, and stubbornness. I look around and cannot stay my eye on one spot, or hold in my mind the larger meaning of this clutter, this unsettled dust, these filled boxes and bags.
I leave for my mother: a brown paper bag with a broken headdress, an unopened baggie of earrings, a short letter her boyfriend left–for me as for each of us–when they thought to break up. These are gestures that she and hers have made, misguided gestures I tried to appreciate but couldn’t fake for long. What she does with these, I don’t care; I’ll be done with her after this, at least for a long while. There is nothing that my mother can or will offer me, save the necessities which my father can and will provide just as well as she.
My mind wanders. There’s too much to think of, even now after hours talking with closest friends on the phone. I’ve always been in the habit of delaying mental processing.