I lived in the same house for 14 years. In the same place where my dad grew up and the same place I thought I wouldn’t leave until graduation. It was an old house in the middle of nowhere.

I moved out of that house four years ago and it was a long, slow process. It started with just a few overnight bags and ended months later with everything I owned. But moving was more than just the physical aspect of packing boxes and loading vehicles. I was reminded of all the memories, all the memories that are embedded into the walls of that house.

14 years of memories left behind.

But I moved on and made memories in a new house. It was an old, blue house off of Congo. And for a year and a half, I made memories in that old, blue house. We made dinner in the kitchen and ate at the dining room table. I had movie nights with some of my best friends in the living room, and though I only lived there for a short time, it was a home.

And then I moved again.

I moved into a nice, new three-bedroom, three-bath town house just minutes from school. It seemed perfect. I could sleep in, I had my own bathroom and all the fast food places were just down the road. I had a few friends over in the six months we lived there. But our dining room table was sold when we left the last house, and we rarely ate dinner together here.

Now three of us are squished in to a two-bedroom, one-bath apartment.

I walk in and head straight for my room. Kristen asleep on the couch and Addi asleep in Kristen’s bed. No one speaks in the morning; we make our way through the maze of boxes and get ourselves ready.

It’s a house cluttered with boxes, there’s no Internet or T.V to watch. It’s a place to sleep and store our things. But it’s not my home.