2004-07-29 - 5:38 a.m.
Just a few more weeks in this town.
I'm reminded of my move up here, five years ago. Five years.
I remember the last night in the house my family built, sitting on the old couch in the basement among scattered belongings, sick to my stomach and irritated that I couldn't cry as I said goodbye to my highschool boyfriend. On reflection, this is not surprising.
And then there was the loading of the van, and a sleepless night, and then the drive.
We left early. Still dark. I wore cut-off jean shorts and my olive green Calvin Klein (yeah, yeah) babydoll tshirt, I remember. Sitting in the bucket seat, surrounded by boxes and suitcases and a cranky little sister, I carefully held my goldfish in his jar between my feet. (The same one that survived moth and popcorn feedings, if I remember correctly, but not the bleach cleaning mother incident.) Gently sloshing for four hours, with the air conditioning chilling my wet legs. My parents drank gas station coffee, and their voices and the warm sweet smell faded in and out as nodded off repeatedly, jerking away to slosh after slosh.
The drive was long, grey and cold. Arrival.
Look at me, all nostalgic and shit.
This apartment no longer feels familiar. The familiarity starts to fade the moment you drag in a cardboard box or take a picture from the wall.
From a goldfish to three cats.
