Growing up in a military family, I’ve grown accustomed to the smell of cardboard boxes and not ever being able to figure out where the silverware drawer is. I can work wonders with a room full of childhood treasures, three medium sized boxes, and the shredded remains of packing paper. I learned early on to throw out anything non-sentimental that I can live without, because hoarding creates for the worst unpacking at the next duty station. I know just what makeup will pass through airport security unnoticed (because who has time to put all liquid products in a ziplock baggie?), and I always carry an empty duffel bag because the contents of my suitcase are never under fifty pounds. All of these things are just life to me, but much to my dismay I am an adult now, and that changes everything.
The big moving pod stuffed to the brim with the belongings of a family of five has become two small cars full of only the essentials and my most prized possessions (the urban outfitters comforter I worked 35 hours to afford and the stuffed Eeyore my boyfriend bought me at Disney six years ago taking the front seat). I am no longer subject to military orders and can move or stay as I please—exciting, right? I’ve moved in with my boyfriend of seven years, and both of our families are preparing to move away from the neighborhood we spent the last chunk of our childhood in, with his going away first.
Sitting in the middle of the empty kitchen in his huge five bedroom house, I realized for the first time that the members of this family that I have come to claim as my own are grown and there will never again be this big of a house and this much stuff to move. The stress of moving sits a little differently knowing that each member of the family is moving off to a new state to live a life separate from the way it has been the past twenty years. I have no obligations to be, but somehow I end up popping in throughout the day and sitting here at the end of every night thinking about the memories we’ve created.
I can see my thirteen-year-old self sneaking down the street to crawl through his guest bedroom window during the months we “weren’t allowed to be dating.” I can see us walking around the neighborhood because there was nothing else to do and neither of us were old enough to drive. I can see his little brother busting into his bedroom pretending to be a dinosaur in the middle of us hooking up because his parents weren’t home (something I’d really not like to relive, but a vibrant memory nonetheless). I’m casually walking my dog around the neighborhood because he hasn’t texted me back and I can just peep down the street and see if he’s home (I'm admittedly real life crazy). I’m reliving the breakups, the makeups, the shared meals, and the late night games of Phase 10 and Cards Against Humanity. I’m sixteen years old again and bawling because his beautiful family made an entire setup on my birthday when I was feeling down. I’m seventeen, fresh out of my first car accident, concussed and listening to my boyfriend try and keep me awake with the dumbest movie on the planet. I’m sitting in the kitchen with my absolute best puppy dog pout face, begging his military father to let me buy him a puppy for his high school graduation (and my jaw is on the floor because it worked).
The pod is closed and the last graduation party of the family has been cleaned up--it’s my own family’s turn to start packing. The contents of his house have been delivered four separate places, and the renters move in soon. The mailbox is still broken from the time his best friend drove right into it, but the holes in the walls where all of the photos lived are filled in. We will be off to Ohio, leaving his little brother who will be starting his adult life and his parents each moving to new adventures. I feel like I’m watching my own family part ways, because I am. I have never been one to feel much pain when leaving a duty station aside from leaving my closest friends because it isn’t about where you’re at, it’s who you’re with—but it’s different this time. The “who” isn’t the same anymore. They have become my people and they are all parting ways, only to find time to travel to each other infrequently and on the holidays. I’ll treasure this house forever and the memories it has given me. The idea that his family will not be there waiting for us when we return for Christmas break makes me uneasy.
We’ve always been included in the moves of our families, but this time it won’t be the same. It won’t be twelve people packed into a five bedroom house fighting over the last turkey leg on Thanksgiving. It will be sporadic visits from everyone on different schedules across the country in one bedroom apartments and two bedroom houses. There won’t be anyone trying to alter report cards or anyone yelling about who loaded the dishwasher or frantically scrubbing the house to the core before dad returns from deployment. The pool with their names in the cement will be used by new kids with a life entirely separate from ours. If I know anything it is that this house's time as a part of our lives was up, but I hope the new residents treasure it as much as I have because I'll be leaving a little bit of my heart at the doorstep.
