Over the years of break-ups and moving ons, I have left behind cracked bowls. Holey jeans. Single socks.
I have left dust bunnies. Stale popcorn. Freezer burned ice cream.
I’ve left behind unloved art. Boring books. Stained pillows.
I have left treasured plants. Generations of chipmunks. Rocks with stories.
Broken hearts. Questions unanswered. Faith. I’ve left those behind as well.
I somehow never leave behind the guilt, the worry, the “what-if.” I carefully package the “it’s my fault” along with flower vases. The “I’m sorry” tucked in with the wine glasses. The “I’ll be fine” rides along in the passenger seat.
Everything is okay, but I am moving, to a different town, about a half an hour from where I am now. Each time I have moved, whether with a partner or without, that sense of upheaval takes it’s toll. I’m excited about what’s ahead of me, and yes, eager to unpack art supplies, but there’s always so many things left behind…