Packing anti-tip the forty-seventh: do not read old journals when packing them. Just put. Them in. The box. And then step. Away. From the box.
It’s not that you’ll be surprised at what you’ll find in there. You wrote it, all of it. It’s that you’ll spend more time reading them than you did writing them and you have kept a diary since you were 7 and that’s a freaking lot of journals and the movers come in 11 days and you still have a few more boxes of CDs you don’t listen to anymore to load and why did you never unpack or throw away this box of bubble-wrapped bottles of perfume you have never worn?
I pick up the keys to my new place in eight hours. Zen is fast asleep next to me, twitching as she knocks over coffee-filled mugs in her dreams. Even the FuzzyClock reminds me it is much later than bedtime, but I don’t want to sleep through these last moments of three years here. This day is the tip of a fern unfurling to new light.