She hated packing. Least of all, her memories. The cushion that she had sought solace from when no one understood her tears, the door that she scratched on in utter frustration during a marathon study session, the telephone by the corner where she poured her heart out every evening.
The walls had seen her scream and shout in desperation. The doors had been slammed numerous times when words wouldn’t convey enough. The rooms had been thrown in disarray every time she had an argument with someone.
But while she had shared her anguish in that space, she had also lovingly caressed each article in that house. Putting things in place was usually therapeutic. Cleaning sorted her out, always.
Every frame on the wall held a story. She took down each of those, repositioned them on new walls. But she was never able to recreate that story. Those walls were special. They brought out a side of her that nothing else ever would.