I'm about to move. Out of my home of six years. A place where any dent, or smudge or misalignment is some sort of memory. Where I can look at any home improvement project with pride. Where i can look at any home improvement project and see the imperfections.

The place where, upon arrival, includes some sigh of relief. 

Sometimes you know that it’s time to move on but also that a place is more than wood, or brick, or texture or color. It’s the ephemeral nature of memories and the human instinct to form attachments. So it’s tough.

Then there are these strange things: these memories of potential, of almosts and could-have-beens. Sometimes those are the most difficult. Sometimes they hold a greater weight of loss. So it gets tougher.

As a prepare to open, then fill, then close boxes, until my home becomes less recognizable, less comfortable, like it's trying to push me out, I remind myself that things are still only things. And that they don't carry memories. I do.