Boxes. That was just about all you could see after the movers left us alone in our vacation home. Our new home. I immediately knew I would have to get used to saying that. I immediately new that I would have to get used to my new address, too. And my new school. I tried not to think about what would come after my care-free summer at sleep-away camp and my looming new school year. Cornered by boxes, I sat and typed to my newly made and newly left friends back in New York, and thought that this was possibly one of the most truly frightening things that I had ever done in my short life.
I was an average girl growing up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and I had been going to one of the most rigorous school in the New York Tri-State area. I made good grades, had what I thought were true friends, and a large room in a pre-war apartment building. It was the holiday vacation of fifth grade that my dad had originally suggested moving to the Sunshine State. Mom and I sort-of chuckled at the idea, but he was serious. The whole idea of leaving everything I had ever known made my heart drop into my backside. I avoided any further questions about even the idea of a permanent migration to Florida- if I could- and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach every time I thought about leaving the North.
At the end of fifth grade, our move was confirmed.
I entered sixth grade with no close friends that I could confide in and no expectations for that year that would separate me from my ominous move. After the first few months, much to my surprise, I gained a close circle of friends that I never expected to have. And as the end of the year finally came, the move became more and abstract. Even on the last day of school, I couldn’t manage to say anything really sentimental, just because of the fact that I didn’t know I wasn’t coming back to everything I had ever known.
And as I got back from my school in the Bronx, my house was being boxed. All I could do was sit in a chair and read my yearbook, with my Buddha from my friend and a keychain from Japan, flipping through the faces of the teachers I disliked and the friends I had finally made.
Those were my last few memories from my old home.
Now, mind you, this is no sob story. I only write things that have happy endings. So, after 180 boxes and school uniforms and supplies I went to my new school and, with the help of one very special friend, met a very close group of “siblings” that have my back no matter what.
So, in the end, my “big coastal move”, was all worth it. Every bit of it.
In this, I believe that no matter what happens in life: “In the end, everything will turn out fine. And if it doesn’t then it isn’t the end yet.”
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