tori amos: a sorta fairytale
snow & voices: carry us home
i think the hardest thing about packing is sorting through yr memories.
tonight, i’ll be going to the alamo drafthouse on colorado street for the v. last time. i’ll park on seventh street, like i always do. then i’ll walk down colorado, past the pedicabs waiting on the corner, the posh crowd around kenichi, the bustling valets, the blaring sports on the ringers tv, a few homeless guys toothlessly asking for change.
i’ll trudge up the stairs, say hello to fernando and move through the crowded lobby to my seat. i’ll think about all of the times i’ve sat in those seats and wonder how it all fits into my brain.
i don’t think i’ll cry, though. i don’t know why… maybe i’m just too excited about the ritz. maybe i just have a lot of hope for my future at the alamo, the shows, the guests, the confetti cannons!
i did cry last night, though. in my apartment. it happened suddenly, right after a box of picture frames, candles and fragile items. i came upon some mix tapes, from a part of my life that is over even as it lingers. how cliché, right?
i threw them away. into the trash with the coffee grounds. i felt like i was watching someone else do what i couldn’t possibly be capable of doing.
so i cried. i grabbed onto the door frame of my apartment for support, to feel like i could hug my home. i needed to physically hold on to this piece of my life for just a little while longer. it was sturdy and safe and unyielding, like i wanted it to be.
i heard the wind chime tinkling outside of my window. it used to hang on the back patio of my grandmother’s house, and when i hear it, i feel like she’s smoothing the hair on my head and kissing my cheek.
i let her caress my forehead, and i thought about our flimsy conception of time. some days should count for more. there should be a way for time to translate the value of a moment, don’t you think? maybe then we wouldn’t be responsible for carrying so much of the weight.
my apartment is filling up with boxes. and last night, i made one of them a little lighter.
i cry everytime i move too…except i cry b/c moving 40 boxes during a texas summer really blows.
That’s one of the hardest things to do, to throw away memories from the past. We want to hold onto certain memories, even if they are shattered and one dimensional, not showing the true moment of the memories. I have been purging my life of pictures, letters, etc from the past and it’s hard.
So good for your strongpants!
i’m not looking forward to packing up my house. i can emphathize with your sadness.
I agree, moving can be very hard. I’ve moved lots of times, and sometimes I was excited about the move and sometimes not, but always there’s this wistful moment as I walk out of the empty house or apartment, look inside for the last time and remember the life I lived there, and just before closing the door I say goodbye (yes, I actually say out loud “goodbye, apartment” or “goodbye, house”…even though I know it’s not going to answer it just feels like the thing to do.) Anyway, I know your new apartment will soon be filled with memories too. It just takes some time to adjust.
Matt and I have been living in a shell of our former home for a week. All the paintings are off the walls, our beautiful shelves have been deconstructed, every room is filled with boxes, and there’s no trace of the wonderful homey vibe we’ve enjoyed there for two years. I’ve cried off and on all week. But last night we got the keys to our new apartment, and I walked in to that empty space and started planning where everything would go and suddenly felt the anticipation overshadowing the nostalgia. I hope that happens for you, too, ma’am.
awww, sarah. sometimes life is hard, too hard even, but it’s good, too.
ooooo, serious post. Well done on it.