Today, as we grabbed every unboxed thing and shoved it into a box, I took a break and walked to the end of my street and snapped a single picture.
My street...
Soon, it won't be my street anymore.
My family moved to this street when I was four-years old. I remember some things. I remember the road was dirt and where homes and grass grow, there stood cherry and apricot trees. In fact, where I stood to take the picture was about twenty feet underground. There were no homes between the Warnocks to the west and the Kennards to the east. We built, then the Bargers, then the Seeleys, then others. Most have gone, some remain.
That was fifty years ago.
We're about to dismantle our bed so it will be easier for the movers to shove it into a big box on wheels and ship it sixty miles north, our lives, our memories of seventeen years and more in two trucks. We'll leave behind an empty house and a bit of our hearts.
It wasn't always great--both my parents died in the house my father began to build. I miss them. With us going, no Taylors will live on 325 East anymore. I'm sad, but excited. I'm nervous, but calmed in knowing it is time.
Good-bye, Farmington. We've loved you and you've treated us well. On to the next!
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