everything ends up where it started. boxes replace dresser drawers so seasonally. so many things... it's hard to know where to begin. where to begin to let go. new streets will replace the streets i have just learned. in 20 years i will tell my children, as we drive through this city, "mommy used to live here, when she was young". in the same 20 years, in the same car, i will not tell them so many things that no longer naturally follow that sentence. i will not tell them about the scar on my shoulder, or the way the brick streets felt that night. i will not explain the spontaneous parades down the sidewalk after the bars let out. white happens. memory lets go. now if only i could say the same for my bedroom, aching and bulging with the remnants and polaroids and boxes where they will again be packed.