My cross country saddle is astride the back of the couch and the living room smells of genuine leather and the light scent of horsehair.
The oil painting of a poppy rests against the wall in preparation for storage.
Black permanent marker stains my fingers, remnants of all the block writing I've done on numerous boxes for the past few weeks.
Thirty or so boxes are stacked in a corner of a friends attic. Things I won't see for a long time, things I won't need where I'm going. Things I probably don't need anyway.
I gave my hanging ivy to a friend. I don't think they'll make the plane ride sufficiently.
Our house isn't ours anymore and it's become cold and distant. I hug my sweatshirt hood closer up around my neck and move on.
