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Last night at home

I open the door to my family home’s basement and I see all my stuff either in bags or neatly packed in boxes. Hard to believe that everything you own in the world can be put in a corner somewhere in a basement. “It doesn’t look like a lot of stuff,” I say to myself, but I know that every item packed has a million pounds of memories attached to it.

Amidst all my stuff are books I’ve had since I was a kid, hoping to pass down to my own someday; some gadgets that I either paid hard earned money for or were gifts. There are even some furniture items that were all generously donated to help me out. Everything symbolizes something about me.

“Hard to believe it’s never going to be here anymore,” I say again as I put the last items in the last box, a small hard drive that has old videos and audio files.

I close the lid and tape it up. When I open the box up again it will be a few hundred kilometers away in my new apartment.

I walk up the stairs and turn off the light.

This is my last night at home.

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