Last Night in the House on 7th St.

(This post was actually written on the night of March 31, 2010)

There are boxes stacked up around my bedroom. They reach varying heights, reminding me of the broken ruins of ancient Greek columns that I have only seen in textbook photographs and old postcards at antique stores. The few items that remain unpacked are the computer that rests beneath my fingers, a picture frame that holds a photo of my grandfather pressed against the dried flowers that once adorned his casket, and a photograph of the backyard in which I spent my childhood.

In a fit of nostalgic bliss, I imagine that I am a child again, being playfully chased by my dog, a miniature spitz with a chronic ear infection, as I run through an invisible battle field of monsters, aliens, and school bullies that can only be defeated from a blast from my Nintendo Zapper with a cut-off cord. With me are my two best friends, who would often show up at my home missing a shoe or a shirt. We let out our shrill pre-pubescent battle-cries as we bravely rush to defeat our enemies and save the entire world: my backyard. I imagine myself wrapped in the arms of my grandfather, who would tell me, tiny hero that I was, that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. I was safe and contained in those timeless days of childhood where the future seemed impossible and the world would never end.

It is getting late and I need to go to sleep. The movers will be here early tomorrow. I grab my camera and take a photograph of the front of my (soon to be former) home. An object that has no meaning unless it is woven to a story. The story of this house, as I remember it, is one that is characterized by slow progress and numerous failures. Perhaps shedding this home will cause me to shed the qualities of myself that have held me back thus far. I need to move forward. I need a change in scenery.

I need a new haircut.