14 boxes labeled kitchen.
9 crates of books.
6 suitcases crammed with her clothes with his clothes with 4T clothes with baby clothes.
she unzips one and stuffs in the nursing bra and the bracelet she found under the bed.
the bracelet looks small, and she circles a finger and a thumb around her tiny wrist.
the outlet covers catch her eye and she remembers pressing them in
one by one
upstairs and downstairs
not having enough and running to the kerr drug to get some more.
that kerr drug isn't there anymore.
she rests her face on the green suitcase for just a minute
and thinks about being pregnant in this house
thinks about bringing her babies home to this house
thinks about never getting to be inside this house
and the zipper starts to press too hard on her cheek and her son needs help getting his water bottle open and also she just needs to get moving.
two weeks later,
she gets in the car with her husband and this house is empty of furniture and fingerprints and the smell of dinner and the kids are sleepy in the backseat and her heart is full as a tick
because finally she is looking forward to their next landing place.
the front end of the car scrapes one last time as they back out onto the street, and they drive away.
I do some creative writing here like what you just read. Bits and pieces of fact and fiction. One small way to keep myself in the habit of making new things.
This week, I'm exploring what happens when you admit the possibility that something big and important to you might need to go.