Dan and Choo came over tonight to help me drink beer and pack up the kitchen. The cupboards are bare of our things, and they look fantastic that way.
Still, as much as I dislike this place and can't wait to get out of here, as much as I like the new one and can't wait to get into it, moving always makes me melancholy. This round is no exception, and I'm not sure why. Is it the sense of dislocation? Is it sifting through and assessing personal belongings? Is it regret over the end of something, even something I've been waiting impatiently to end? Is it because I'm a big mopey sap?
Or maybe I'm just dreading cleaning out the mold-infested shed in the carport. Actually, that could be it.