Moving Day

My most intense memory is of when my parents and I moved into a house in Forest Lawn.

They had just bought it, the realtor had dropped the keys off, and for our first night, we celebrated in the living room in front of the big picture window, eating pizza with all the works, and drinking champagne. I remember my hand digging into the rough, cream colored carpet that my mother swore she'd tear up, and dodging the cork that popped off when my dad opened the bottle of champagne. I remember picking the green peppers off the pizza and hiding them in a napkin, then rolling the pizza up and biting into it.

To this day, moving still means excitement and possibilities for me. It's the same way I feel when I look at a blank piece of paper before I begin writing. I've moved a lot, I'm used to it now. A part of me even craves it, the change, the sense of surroundings completely foreign, of visiting old territory and remembering how I felt then.

One of the problems I have with moving, however, is how much stuff I bring with me. I never had a consistent home, so anything that evoked any feelings in me, was kept and shuffled along to the next place I lived.

I've been living in the same apartment for the past three years, and I've come to realize that while I might have lived alone, I definitely have enough stuff for two people. There's the three different types of bookcases, the hand me down furniture, the entertainment stand I rescued before it was thrown out...

I'm sitting in the middle of a disaster area, not sure how to get rid of all this junk, and I want to. I'm tired of looking back all the time. 

There's that record player from when I walked from the Northside with it and was scared I'd get jumped. Here's that strange two wheeled skateboard I found on the sidewalk after a really bad date. I have a box full of stuff from my last relationship that I have no idea what to do because he and I don't really talk. I mean, does he want his stay over clothes back? What do I do with all the gifts he gave me? I don't think it's healthy to keep these kinds of memories of the past, but what do I do with them?

I'm going to throw out the junk, and donate whatever else I can, because moving sucks, but it's a chance at a new beginning.

Who knows, maybe I'll even have champagne and pizza at my new place on my move in day. Just, skip the green peppers, please.