Sarah piles the last box into the car. The trunk might not fully close, but at least it all fits. 28 years of memories crammed into 17 cardboard boxes. The guilt of parting ways with the rest lingers in her gut, but there’s nothing she can do about that now.

She pulls the trunk door down with force, hitting a few corners and smashing them round. Oops - at least it shut.

She sighs and turns toward the house. She hasn’t been here since her dads 70th birthday almost 6 years ago. The siding is a little whitewashed from the beating sun, and the front porch wood stain is peeling, but other than that it looks the same as she’s always remembered.

Making a split second decision, she decides to walk through one last time. It deserves a proper goodbye.

Stepping into the garage, she takes a moment to spot the toddler handprints dated in the concrete corner of the floor. 9/8/1996. She was 2 years old when she did this, not that anyone living would remember.

She heads toward the threshold to the house and opens the door. The knob is dirty, almost rust-like, after years of wear. The door creaks open and she’s instantly hit with a primal, familiar scent. It has a hint of musk, but otherwise still the same - a mix of pine sol, laundry detergent, and firewood. Home sweet home.

The laundry room is still neon yellow. Her mom said that a bright entryway is good luck for a house, but Sarah always thought she just wanted to piss off her dad. He must not have hated it enough to paint over it.

The old kitchen is straight ahead. It looks so depressingly empty. All she can think of are the hundreds of slumber parties she and her girlfriends snuck to the kitchen to make a midnight snack, tip toeing so not to wake her parents in the adjacent room.

She makes her way to her old room. Ironically it’s the one room in the house she has the hardest time visualizing, likely due to the number of furniture moves she made over the years. When she tries to remember this room, she can’t land on a singular layout. But the walls are the same - a light pink - with small holes peppered throughout from old posters of celebrity crushes. The amount of emotions this room has been with her for, and the final thing she’ll feel in it is heaviness.

She closes the door and glances past the living room to the one room in the house she doesn’t want to see. Her parent’s bedroom - and the only room Sarah would agree to sleep in until she was 7. The door is closed, and she doesn’t want to reopen it. The sadness is too heavy.

Growing up, Sarah always imagined the glorified moment she would leave this house, this town, to head to the city and make it on her own. She never imagined she would have to leave it for good. Now that the moment has come, she wishes she could go back. Cherish another moment, create another memory within these walls. But even if she did, it wouldn’t be the same. The magic of her childhood is gone, and she is utterly alone.

A single tear falls down her cheek as she takes one final look around. Saying goodbye to this house makes saying goodbye to her parents so much more real. The final goodbye. To them all.