Saturday, February 12, 2011


When we first moved into this apartment, I was in fifth grade. Our neighbors brought over spaghetti and for the first time, I felt the warmth of community. My room faced the hills and the sunshine. In the summer, the sun pierced my window with so much force that it was impossible to see anything- the white walls reflected the light. If I left the door open and looked in from the hallway, I could see the sunlight spilling from the frame.
This was home. My parents allowed me to pierce the walls with tacks so that I could put pictures up. In all of the other apartments, I'd have to use tape- "we're moving soon and we don't want to have to fix the walls," they'd say. This place has felt my presence. The carpet is worn from our furniture, and the window has been replaced as a result of my anger. This isn't the first time that I've had to leave home, and this is definitely the shortest distance that I have ever gone. I have a second home now anyway, on campus, where I live with 52 amazing UCI students, but that doesn't stop me from being nostalgic tonight. My heart is heavy with memories, and the floor is packed with boxes.
Here's to moving on. Again.

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