Inside the box

Just to let you guys know, if you need me, I'm buried underneath boxes, packing tape, and Mark-A-Lots.

The stacks continue to grow.

It's a strange feeling.

The feeling I get when I look around and see our home being packed up.

Wrapped in newspaper, boxed, taped and labeled.

It's not exactly the feeling that I'm loosing my home or leaving my home, but that I can take it with me.

I've moved before.

I moved to college, but I it wasn't for real.

I still did my laundry at Momma's.

I moved from Momma's to The Little House, but it was sort of a temporary transition instead of a move.

Most of my stuff was still packed up.

Then we moved here.

Most of our wedding presents were still in their original boxes when we unpacked them here.

Once we unpacked, everything had its place. We were settled.

Mr. Z and I had to figure out how a marriage worked.

How a household worked.
How to combine each other's junk in our junk.

How to merge two lives completely.

That's what we are packing up. Our lives.

Now, I don't want you to think I feel that our lives are our things, but our things do represent our life.

Inside the boxes are:

The books we've studied.

The bills we have paid.

The gifts we have been given.

The dishes we picked out.

The games we have played

The movies we've watched.

The pictures we have taken.
The clothes we have worn.

The memories we have made.

It's a little sad, really exciting, extremely joyful, and super scary.

Now I'm off to attempt to scrub the newspaper ink off my fingers.