Five Years Stuffed into Boxes

I really went to town these last few days on starting to pack my belongings. I need to be out of my apartment by Nov. 1st. I put away all the picture frames, candles, stemware, etc. I packed away all the shotglasses I've collected from traveling (I have 82!). The boxes are stacking up higher and higher, and the walls are starting to look as plain as when I moved in. As excited as I am to be into the house, I get a little teary-eyed from time to time. It has been home, and I made it as much of a home as I could.

I'll miss reading out on my balcony during a summer evening while sipping a glass of wine. No more walking to the University grocery store when I decide to make cookies at the 11th hour, and discover I don't have eggs. Walgreens won't be a hop, skip and a jump at the new house. I chuckled as I packed up "apartment-warming" gifts that I received from friends. I loved entertaining friends for parties and family for Packers games. It felt good to come "home" after some long days at work, or after being on vacation. I don't know that I'll have a pesty elderly neighbor lady (who my friends and I refer to as "grandma") watching my every move, but also looking out for me. And as annoying as it was, there was something charming about getting my hand on every quarter I could find so I could do wash at the end of every week.


I know once I am in the house, I'll wonder how I ever lived in an apartment for so long. The rewards of homeownership will be great. And everyone I know who lives in a house is telling me how much I will love it. I believe them, but in the meantime, I want to enjoy this last week or so that I have left on Danz Ave. I don't have to leave in disgust, nor do I want to. After all, I've been there five years. That's five years of life, five years of stuff, five years of memories.