Boxes

I'm moving and packing. Packing because I’m moving I suppose. So far I have 3 bags with clothes, 2 boxes FULL of books, 1/2 a box with shoes and still some stuff to go.
It's an odd feeling moving. They say it's a traumatic experience. So far I’ve stressed about money, stressed about my key cause it didn't want to double lock my door and now I’m melancholic because I have to go. I never thought I’d fill up around 6 boxes/bags in a year and a half. Never thought I’d build up memories that quickly here. And I’m only talking about the material things now.
I'm slowly packing my emotional ones. Counting the meals that I’ll still have with my aunt and uncle. The times I hear them downstairs. I'm going to miss the TV criticism. The eating on the couch, the comforting. I'm going to miss the books. This house is full of them. French, Spanish, German, English and Dutch. It's better than the Pana library. I'm going to miss my aunts cooking, the desserts, and the neatness of the kitchen. I'm definitely going to long for the Guatemalan things tucked away in corners, the tastes of other cultures in others. The coffee after dinner and the tea at 10.
I'm putting my memories in boxes, metal, waterproof, fire proof and hopefully Alzheimer’s proof. I'm locking up the smells, the sounds and the smiles. But thankfully it's not good bye.

I'm happy to have my own place, but that's another story for another time.