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Moving

I step into the house.
It’s hard to believe
That this barren landscape
Was once a place I called home.
The white carpeting
Shows where the furniture once sat.
Now all of the belongings have been
Packed up in giant boxes,
Loaded into trucks
And being moved.

I walk down the hall
Into the kitchen,
where the apple themed cookware
once flooded the drawers and cabinets.
Now the kitchen has been stripped
of its Macintosh motif
and left vacant.
The emptiness wraps around me
and constricts
until all remaining air
tastes dead,
flat,
lifeless.
Finally, I’m unable to remain strong
and must let the tears rain down my face.
My mother stalks in
silently,
and startles me when she whispers in my ear,
“Let it go, Ash, it’s just a house.”
But it’s not that easy.
It’s more than just a house,
it’s my home.



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