I'm leaving. I'm leaving my mom, my dad, my little sister, and (least importantly, though still with love) my cat. I'm packing up my wardrobe and my books and my life, and I'm off for four years. After that, I might spend a year or two at home, thanks to the continuing economic downturn, but in truth, I have about three months left of the life I have lead up until this point. Naturally, the life I'm about to put on pause will resume on breaks, but the place I call home is going to change regardless of how often I call my parents or skype with Sophie Claire.
I have no recollection of the apartment I lived in before I came here. The only places that I can think of where I may live more comfortably are the homes of both of my grandmothers and the Burrow from the Harry Potter series. Otherwise, this is it. I forced my parents to promise me that they would never sell our current house, but I have a feeling that deception of one's children is a regular activity among most parents.
Lying here in my living room, half-dozing on the couch, directly opposite from the staged photos of my sister and me in overalls with sunflowers in our pockets, I feel a piece of me being torn away with the realization that my time is so short here. But I've only just arrived. It's time to go?
I want to hug the walls of my bedroom I painted with Erin and my sister and kiss the stars on my ceiling. I want my family to know how much their love has meant to me. I want to observe and enjoy and do whatever I need to never forget the way things are right now. I owe my family at least that much.