BY SAVANAH HIPPERT
Dust collected in my nose as I pulled an unopened box out from under my bed. The imprint the box created over the last five years remained visible in the tan colored rug, next to it was a dried up droplet of nail polish.
Many nights in the spring I’d come home and throw my tennis bag in the corner of my room, kick my shoes off, flop on my bed in my uniform and stare blankly at a bare white square. At one point, my ceiling was covered with Ross Lynch posters. Those came down sophomore year of high school when I started dating my first boyfriend. I put them in a box and pushed it under my bed. When my relationship ended, the photos and notes went into the box as well.
With each trip, the house began to rumble more when its contents grew sparse.
The many holes in my light blue walls supported my indecisiveness on how I could never choose on where to hang my pictures and shelves.
Looking at each corner, I could see the clumps of dirt, dust, and debris that had collected. My mother always told me to vacuum and dust often, something I did only to the surface, so it seemed.
When I graduated, we were completely moved out of the house.
Our new house in the city still smelled of wood chips and fresh coats of paint. My mom and I had to spend nights together on her queen sized mattress in the new finished basement until the whole kitchen was put in. We kept food in the laundry room in a mini fridge.
Today, my diploma sits on a shelf next to various books. My same bed has a new white comforter on it, and my room is now a tan color. There’s no carpet, but a hardwood floor. I discarded the old posters, photos, and notes.
The box under my bed doesn’t create an imprint as before, but it has created a bit of dust.