letters from barabbas

I told Brandon I was an expert at moving because I've done it so many times, and that I would be glad to help him pack up his stuff. But there's so much I'd never realized....
I didn't help very much. I sat on his bed until three in the morning, hoping he wouldn't be finished, because once someone leaves he can only come visit--and he'll never again bear that feeling of home.
Watching him pack up his stuff was like watching him unpack himself. The way you find things you'd forgotten you'd lost behind dressers and in dusty closets. Going through notebooks and sorting out trash, staring long into pictures and telling their stories, he unloaded his bookshelf into a box. He was meticulous with every piece of junk and every heirloom, as if it were a treasure chest for losing at sea, and not just a rubber tub from Walmart.

I've always held onto everything, silly things, in box upon stupid cigar box, afraid I'd forget what already was blurred from too many transportations. But maybe that feeling of home will always hover around Brandon--and all who I've let feel like home. Maybe I don't need a box full of tickets to nurture a sense of history.
Maybe it's time to unpack.