Have you ever walked down the alley to your old house, thinking "jesus, this really could be it"?
Each laugh you had, each skinned knee, comes flooding back.
You realise... you really might not ever come back.
By this time next year, there might not be any familiar dirt to trod on, no old smells, no musty textbooks or assigned novels left in the attic.
I'm going to miss this old dust ball when I push off, but to think this wasn't coming, some day, would be foolish.
There are toys to box up, books to ship, clothes to donate.
Can't really be helped...
However I'm going to feel weird and sad throughout, and long after, the process.
I called this place home, for more than half my life.
Long autumn nights spent telling ghost stories, or sipping hot spicey cider at dinner parties.
Ovens full of blueberry muffins that tasted better with a cup of orange juice.
Veiled threats, and suicide attempts, poems, lymrics, triumphs and defeats.
Every memory, horrible or wonderful, treasured likewise.
You think to yourself "maybe I'll just burn it down so I really CAN'T come back", but once its someone else's home... you just know you won't.
Only... now, I'm afraid fall just won't mean as much, and a piece of my history begins to whither, and crumble, carried off by the distant wind.
Unless you can think of a way for me to make a home where home always was, I fear this is another nail in this chapter's coffin.
