Moving Day Research Paper

Moving day loomed over me like an essay deadline, yet seemed to drop out of the sky when it actually came. Sure, we had prepared beforehand by donating our overly large dining set, by gifting our grand three-person leather couch and by disassembling our dark stained, wooden bunkbed (good-bye, my perching days). So much of the large pieces of furniture was already relieved of our 1000 square foot condo, yet so much of our belongings still remained so that I did not realize just how dramatic moving would be. Perhaps it was because I had slept at the new, empty, apartment the night before, thus denying my poor soul of the luxury of watching the progress of slowly emptying my old home while I stressed over advanced algebra in the PSAT. Boxes were
Of course, I knew it was moving day. But that was only in my head, and so the cliche goes, my heart told me something different. It said that I had just spent four hours of my life at a small, gray desk testing for content that I never use outside of that poster-plastered classroom. And because of that experience, I should expect to find a couch to throw my jacket onto, and then be able to make a quick turn down the hallway and jump onto a gracious, full-sized bed (an upgrade from the twin I had in the spring), reminiscent of falling onto a cloud that made the sounds of a mattress with broken springs, and be able to spend four hours scrolling through social media as though it were somehow more productive than the four hours practicing for a college entrance
With my family in front, I stepped onto the tile entryway without taking off my shoes. My soles echoed subtly and strangely in the cavernous, open concept and my soul slowly deflated into the empty space. Sundry clutter was pushed into a corner, backed by boxes holding household items that I wouldn’t miss until they are at the back of the one-car garage and crying to be of assistance. Cautiously, I gave myself a brief tour of the place that I once was able to walk through with my eyes closed, albeit with a couple trips here and there. Though there wasn’t much to trip over there’s still a good deal to cleaned before we could officially call this our old place. I slide open my closet door to find not clothes, but bags and crates and more boxes. Defeated at the sight of so much to still pack, as well as tired, I retreated to where my bed once stood. I began to rebuild my personal space again, and soon I was leaning on my headboard with a warm comforter as a cushion, taking a glance out my window instead of taking a catnap on the cold hardwood floor. The sheer curtains rippled in the cool summer evening breeze, brushing against my skin like a kind ghost and I realized that the real ghost was me. The curtains still hung in the room as the last trace of my presence, but they did not move as I hoped. I had no time to spend in the past, and so I dolefully pull myself out from the spiritual afterlife. I begin to do my duties as to not drag out the