A side effect of coming home for the summer for what is most likely the last time (Don't worry, I'll be back to visit) is that it's time for me to pack everything up, to rummage through the detritus of my childhood and decide what is worth keeping and what's not.
I'm a pack-rat, or at least a sentimental gal. I want to keep everything, despite the fact that some things just have to go. So now there are bags of clothing waiting to be donated, stacks of books waiting to be boxed up and shelved in the closet, and piles of clothing and art supplies finding new homes in my suitcases. And trashbags brimming with needless clutter, destined for the curb.
I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like I'm abandoning home sometimes, but I know that this is a necessary move. I can't be who I am meant to be if I don't leave, if I don't strike out into the world to find my own place. I just wish the process didn't hurt so much.
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