Last night I crawled up into my loft and started packing up my books. I always start a move by packing up my books. In part I do this because books are easy, but since they also mean home to me, packing them convinces me that I really am leaving a place.
Right before I took the first book off the shelf, I sat on one of the red Indian print floor pillows and looked around the loft. The light was warm, and the floors were dark and a bit dusty. Chock full of books, the low shelves framed the window. My jade plant was perched on its plant stand, surrounded by two aloe plants, one of them spilling over the pot and tumbling onto the floor. I need to repot that poor plant, but I like the way it winds around the stand.
I took a deep breath and for one last moment was in my home. Then I picked up a book and put it in the box.