The Cardboard-Crate Life

The boxes have a pile again.
This time, there's plenty of furniture wrap, bubble wrap, newspaper, and label paper.
This time, I know what to expect.
I know what needs protecting.

I expect the goodbyes to be "I'll see you soon"s.
I expect the moving day will be filled with helping hands and end in a sweaty mess.
I expect tensions will be high as I try to organize each detail
                                            as I try to direct the flow of delicate possessions
                                            as I try to both hold onto the fond memories of this house and grieve for the life I now leave behind.
I expect some excitement and fear as I drive away with a car filled dangerously full.
I expect to have a new iPod playlist to distract me from the work.
I expect these things for that day.

As I look forward, I look back.
What happened last time? What happens this time?

I expect that I will know no one in this new town of new buildings and streets.
I expect that the "I'll see you soon"s will turn into mere imprints on the wind.
I expect that I will only know where the good food is once I am preparing to leave.
I expect the excitement will be dulled as there are no girlfriends to share it with when I get old.
I expect I'll learn a new way to drive with the "worst drivers ever."
I expect that another 15 pounds is waiting for me on the couch.
I expect I will just want to stay cuddled up in my new home on the furniture I know,
with the stuff I know, with the only person I know,
safe in the few things I know
Until I am too sad to try to get out.
Too lazy to build up new hobbies.
Too quiet to make any new friends.
Too "content" (or discontent) to mess up my routine.



I can't let this happen again; I have no patience for the doldrums.
I can't survive in a cardboard-crate life.
I need the touch of grass, the breath of breezes, and the laughter of water.
I need to reconnect with humanity and Earth.
I need a place to settle in that's more than just a house--a home.