As I wipe the dust
from artifacts of a forgotten life,
packing them in boxes
to be forgotten until next time,
I am an inch from tears.

I'm happy to be leaving
(I don't like it here at all),
but I spent five years as a nomad,
and this is the first home I've had
since leaving the place I grew up.

I grow attached to places
to walls and walks and views,
to Sunday morning bells,
and the sounds a house makes
when everyone is asleep.