Bring Me Back

After reading a few pages, I yawn and decide to call it a night. I pile the books on my nightstand and flick off the light.

The boxes in the corner cast strange shadows across the walls and I find myself childishly imagining the bogeyman emerging from behind them. It’s a silly thought, I know, but it’s weird seeing the boxes there.

The last two weeks have been spent packing up my belongings. Some things will go to the new apartment with me, others will be donated, and I’ll try to sell some. The house is slowly but surely emptying out. It’s a sad process and it kills me a little bit each time I pack something away. I keep reminding myself it’s for the best.

I cross my hands beneath my head and close my eyes, willing sleep to come.

After a few minutes, I drift away.

“What about this?” my mom asks, holding up a wooden spoon. It’s stained and old, hardly anything anyone would want.

“Toss it,” I say, sorting silverware into a box. I just got the call that there’s been an offer on the house. It’s a good one, great, even, so I accepted it.

This is really happening now.

My dad and Ryder are painting the apartment today. Ryder was kind enough to ask if I needed any help so I gladly accepted. Plus, I didn’t like the idea of my dad there painting by himself. I was afraid of him falling off a ladder or something. The man isn’t exactly the most coordinated.

I finish with the silverware and move on to wrapping the plates and setting them in the box.

The kitchen and master bathroom are the last rooms I have to pack. Everything else is pretty well taken care of apart from the closet. My clothes have already been moved to the apartment—aside from a few outfits—but Ben’s clothes still hang inside. I know I can’t take them with me, but I’m having a hard time letting go. I know I’ve kept much more important things that belonged to him, but getting rid of his clothes seems monumental. Maybe I’m just overthinking it. I tend to do that.

I finish with the plates and tape the box shut before carrying it over to the front door.

The house that was once so full—full of love, laughter, and happiness—now echoes with emptiness. It’s a shell of what it once was. Sort of like me. It’s sad, really, how much this place doesn’t feel like home anymore.

I go back to the kitchen and begin sorting the pans. I’m trying not to think about the fact that tonight will be my first night sleeping in the apartment. My parents will in a hotel for the next two days before they head back to Florida. My mom is still talking about moving back here. I told her I don’t care if they do, as long as it’s what they want, but not to move because of me. So, we’ll see.

“You’re quiet,” she comments as we work. I sit on the floor, going through the bottom cabinets while she works on the top ones, sorting glasses.

“I have a lot on my mind,” I say with a sigh. It’s not a lie. I’m all torn up inside.

Life is a confusing melody and right now I can’t hear the music.

Nothing makes sense and I only hope that one day I hear the music again.

“That’s understandable,” she says, wrapping a glass. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and lay a pan on the donate pile. I don’t know if the hospice will even take pans but it’s barely used so I figure it’s worth a try. If not I’ll just toss it. “Why don’t you let me finish this and you can go do your bathroom?”

I know what she’s really suggesting—clear out Ben’s things.

I set a pot in the keep pile. “It’ll go faster if it’s both of us,” I reason.

She clangs a glass against the countertop and I look up at her. “B,” she says sternly, “you’re avoiding.”

I look away. She’s right. Moms are always right. It’s like they’re gifted special magical powers or something.

“Fine,” I grump. “I’ll go do it.”

I wobble as I stand, still not used to the growing belly in front of me.

Boxes litter the downstairs, labeled with either room names or the word donate. I tiptoe around them and up the steps.

The master bedroom is empty, the furniture already gone. I sold it online—I hadn’t wanted to take it with me. The new stuff was delivered yesterday to the apartment. It’s slightly more feminine in style since it’s just me. I figured since this was a new start I might as well get new stuff. Besides, a lot of the things Ben and I bought together would never fit in the apartment.

I grab an empty box off the floor and head into the bathroom. Things like towels and washcloths have already been packed—except for one set while I stayed here—but all the toiletries are still there. I pile them into the box. There’s no rhyme or reason to my method. I just want to get this done and face the last obstacle.

It doesn’t take me long to fill the box with hairspray, shampoo and conditioner, and various body washes and deodorants. Ben always made fun of me for hoarding deodorant, but it’s one of those things I never like to run out of.

I carry the full box to the doorway and grab two more empty ones.