-The Beatles
Unpacking is a tedious process. Every crease that the cheap red luggage has rudely whipped into my worn-out polos requires a good five minutes of smoothing out, every lost sock needs to be matched with its depressed partner.
I barely prepared the packing for college, allowing my mother to divert all of her emotional upheaval into the buying of Pringles, first aid kits, and high-thread-count sheets. So, as I unzip and reopen and plug in all the Ziploc baggies and serran-wrap, it’s like Christmas, surprises of supplies and necessary-to-life presents littering the floor like the plastic trash that I will definitely not be cleaning up.
The only thing that I had a hand in packing, in choosing, in actively considering, were the two posters that are now poorly stick-tacked to my grating white walls. For hours, I quietly perused the loud plastic frames of three different stores, searching for just the right ones. And, after all that, I’m not too happy with the ones I chose.
Tonight John, Paul, George, and Ringo look over my bed from the comfort of the surprisingly-quiet two lanes of Abbey Road, while Peter Jackson’s prawn alien outline tells me that, “YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.”
But, frankly, I have never felt more welcome in my life.
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