My last days in Missoula have been filled with boxes, bartering, and bleach rags. In order to make the trip to Billings, I’ve compacted my two bedroom apartment into two cars. In October, I’ll compact everything again to fit in two suitcases. This involves selling, donating, and throwing away a huge chunk of my personal belongings.
All of my speakers, dressers, couches, dishes, and tables now belong to someone else. Things that have been in my life for 4+ years. Things that hold memories of late-night laugh-fests, serious talks with loved ones, and hundreds of meals being cooked with roommates. It’s really weird, and I look at my now-empty house and feel disconnected.
This doesn’t feel like my house, and it certainly doesn’t feel like home.
Soon, I’ll be living in the house I grew up in – the house I call home. But I know, even with my parents and friends in the mix, I’m not going to feel at home for a long, long time. My things will be in boxes, my clothes will be in suitcases, my mind will be in NYC, and my heart will be in Missoula.
This is the path I’ve chosen to wander. It’s not fun, it’s not easy, I’m constantly fighting back tears, but at least my feet are moving. And as long as that’s the case, I think I just might be okay.