Stuck On You

April 4, 2014

“Thank you,” I watch the delivery men set the last of my boxes on the floor.

 The main man comes up to me, adjusting his hat. “That’s the last of ‘em, did you need anything else?”

I glance around, counting the 22 boxes. They all seemed to be there. My furniture was placed in just about the right areas but they shouldn’t be hard to shift. “Nope, I think that’s it. Thank you.” I paid him and he quickly scampered towards the door.

He tipped his hat to me right before the doorknob locked into place. The silence enveloped me. I never could get used to this feeling, no matter how many times it happened.

Every time I came to a new place, I still was overwhelmed by this exact silence; the silence of starting over. Silence could be a beautiful thing. I’ve learned that it holds you, constantly. You want it so much that it hurts when you know you can’t have it. But when it’s there, you want to get rid of it as if it were a cringe-worthy memory.

Silence should be related to mental illness. It is craved and hated simultaneously. Everyone has experienced its symptoms, but only few can realize the truth of it. Once you knew the truth, the return seemed nearly impossible.

Sighing, I ignore the thought, too fatigued to actually want to put any effort into the rest of the day. I dig through the one box I had kept my eye on. This box had included many of my more personal items. I shift aside the notebooks and pictures, tugging out the stereo. This thing was a part of who I was.

Luckily, I noticed an electrical plug by the counter. I set the stereo down, plugging it in and setting up my IPod to my playlist titled ‘Moving’. Another city, another life, but the music was always the same.

I recognize The Arctic Monkeys immediately, increasing the decibel. The mellow tune always made unpacking easy, giving me all the thoughts of this place becoming home. It made London feel like home, along with Toronto and Paris, St. Malo, Detroit… Why not Sydney as well?

I unfold the cardboard of the first box. On the side of it, in my messy scrawl, was printed ‘Kitchen’. Plates were piled down the center, boxes of forks and knives along the sides. It does look as if any of the materials had shifted during the truck ride over. This meant there was a less likely chance of a broken piece of china.

My mother had bought me the china set. It was one of the only things she bought me when I told her I was going on my adventure. She had deemed me crazy, thinking I was financially inept and had no ability to succeed. Now I stand here, in Sydney, Australia, smiling into her china plates. I would have breathed my hot breath onto them, shining them with my sleeve, but I knew that she had every reason to believe it. The percentage of success was about 20%. I had just been lucky.

I stack the plates along the counter. I knew they would soon be moved into the cabinet (it probably would have been easier to place them there in the first place) but I was tired of seeing cardboard. The bland color had become the equivalent of white noise to me. So, each piece was stacked. It only took up a small section of the countertop, I didn’t need much.

In all the places I’d ever lived, I had never needed more than four sets of china at a time. Making friends wasn’t my forte. It wasn’t a necessity either, I never truly staying in the same place long enough to make too many friends.

 Once the container is empty, it is folded, never torn, and placed on the floor. This would become the placement of my cardboard tower for the time being. I’ve depleted the tower over time. In the beginning it resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I used to carry so much with me.

I open another ‘Kitchen’ box, unloading the silverware all over the counter. Little hand towels and rags are unfolded and then stacked next to the china. There isn’t particularly anything else I have for the kitchen, just a few pots, pans, strainers, measuring cups and cookie and cupcake trays.