WHEN IT’S GONE WHERE DOES IT GO (packing and leaving and never being back here again)

I woke up and realized I’ll never be here again and tomorrow I won’t have to clear a wine glass and beer bottle from my nightstand. I can’t wake up in this bed and write poems in my head and wish away the fog a few days from now and next week I won’t have anyone half asleep next to me to tell my dreams to. This house will be empty and no ice cream containers or smiles will be left in the living room that has working light bulbs in it for the first time since syllabus week. You won’t be able to hear our wine buzzed rambles or delirious laughter or fake fights in the kitchen, that is miraculously messy every morning without fail, and it won’t be messy at all. It will be wiped clean of the red stain on my carpet, the shattered light bulb in the dining room, and the cigarette butts in our driveway. All of the proof that our favorite people were ever here at all. There won’t be too much beer in the fridge or too many bananas on the counter. The dining room won’t be bursting with text books and last minute nerves and a candle won’t always be burning. Nobody will be standing on the picnic table outside or chasing the bunny who lives in our yard and who is going to admire the willow tree from now on? Nobody will jump into my bed to tell me about their day and nobody will be making pasta at obscure times or waiting for Kenzi or Rachel to finally show up. No more overflowing tears or recycling bins will hide away in the garage and locked doors will stop the neighbors from running in unannounced. The walls won’t hold our secrets or four different music tastes or long rambling stories and rants. The floors won’t be sticky with lemonade and vodka induced dancing and all this rain will wash the last of the burnt up notes and oozeball mud from the patio. The mud room won’t be haphazardly strewn about sneakers from when we used to have time for the gym or heels from the last eventful night out or reminders that we went places and did things and then came home, that this was home, and that it isn’t going to be anymore. We can’t barge in after class and toss our stress and empty coffee cup onto the already cluttered table or stumble in at 2 and spill drinks and reckless adventures on the floor. We can’t run upstairs and collapse on sheets tangled with exhaustion and dreams and mid morning cuddles, or run down stairs in the morning to trade coffee for kisses or to recap the night and clean up. The sunshine house that saw so much rain will go dark. It will be empty, clean, silent, and completely Judy-proof for the first time since September and nobody will know exactly how full it was, how trashed with memories. We will all drive off and won’t be blocked into the driveway or of risk of tickets on the streets for the first time in months and we won’t ever come back, it wouldn’t be the same even if we did. We would be different people, doing different things, going different places, spilling different drinks, and leaving different shoes around. It wouldn’t be rainy springtime and the sunshine house and we wouldn’t be like this or feel like this at all. I don’t know where all of those things go when they are gone, but I know that even if we tried to keep a few with us and pack them up and store them away, we would eventually run out of space for them in whatever homes we end up trashing and filling up next. I have to get out of bed and make my second to last cup of coffee now and study the pyruvate dehydrogenase complex and pack everything I have been avoiding, and then take two exams and leave and never be here like this again, but I couldn’t leave this place without mentioning that something good happened here.

 

 

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