There is a small speck of dust in the pit of my stomach when I wake up. It grows quickly as I go through the motions I planned out so carefully the day before.
Get dressed, throw nightclothes into bag.
The dust becomes the size of a mustard seed.
Fold bedding, place neatly in the corner.
Now it’s becoming more like a pearl of coriander.
Wash face, brush teeth, apply a little makeup. Into a Ziploc bag with all of it when I’m done, carefully stashed in my bag’s last remaining spot. I’m pro at this by now.
It’s a lemon seed size now, and beginning to sting like citrus too.
Zip up my bags, do one last check, hug my friend and host for the last few days since my apartment ceased to be mine. Don my hat and grab my bags as she holds the door. I will not cry. Not yet.
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