Standing in silence

After a memory-intense summer spent by the salt-seasoned breeze of the Black sea coast, dad and I had set on the road to travel back home. It took us two days; 35 hours divided in equal journeys by a quick stop in Austria, before continuing to the West. Despite a replenishing night's rest in a charming Alpin cottage, I couldn't help but feel exhausted at the length of the travel. Dad and I have been taking that same road to and fro for over a decade now, but I've never felt as tired as I have been today. Although I couldn't deny that I felt the creaking of oxidized steel in my knees and a singular bullet of pain in my lower back, I wondered if my fatigue wasn't merely physical, but mental as well. Indeed, this summer marked my last vacation as a high-schooler; I was to be a senior in three days. What a sentence! I couldn't even believe it myself.

In the hopes of enhancing my portfolio for college, I spent my first month of summer simultaneously juggling an internship at mom's law firm, training for nationals, and parading around my city with my two best friends: Andy and Caroline. Even though I like to keep myself busy -- which is why I made all those engagements in the first place, that first month of summer hadn't felt like the rest my teachers promised me. At best, it felt like an extension of the crazy pressure school was imposing upon me.

After joyful trips around Paris and a most instructive internship, my first month of summer was complete. Swiftly, nationals week came; I secured 6th place and had the most fun stay with my friends. My horse and I were now set to enjoy our well-deserved one-month-break: he was going to the fields, and I was going to my summer house in the Balkans with dad.

As our car hopped over the slanted area of the sidewalk and made its way into our driveway, I felt a sense of familiarity coming back to me. I was home. How good it felt to finally be back home.

While the car's tired tires crunched the powdered pebbles into even smaller pellets which each advancing step, I saw our house in the distance, approaching ever so closely. I got out of my seat, and made sure not to slam the car door as to avoid being heard. Though soon after, as I opened the gate for dad to park the car, my attempted secrecy was soon betrayed by that strident noise which signaled to everybody in the alley, that we were back home. Dad and I haven't mentioned our time of arrival to mom and my little sister.

Before the sun was determined to set, dad and I made our way to the front door, holding our suitcases in hand. As he forced his key in the lock, the door opened, and we were greeted with a spectacle of chaos; to our left, the living room looked as if turned upside down -- I mean literally because paintings were on the floor instead of on the wall, pillows were on top of cabinets, and the cats' litter box was on mom's desk, right beside her computer. To our right, the dining room felt more like a second basement; piles of preschool books, unimportant documents, and unread mail laid on the table, covering every inch of what used to be a dark oakwood table. Boxes overcrowded the floor and prevented any sort of passing around on both sides, and, since we heard voices echoing from upstairs, we headed straight and took cautious steps up the stairs.

As if downstairs' picture couldn't get any more vividly overwhelming, dad and I were unpleasantly surprised to stand corrected. We were hastily welcomed by mom who was attempting to throw her entire wardrobe into her mid-sized suitcase, while surveilling my little sister, who of course had to occupy herself with a ludicrous idea; she swirled mom's electrical toothbrush way too close to her hair, while making toddler dance moves. This was a scene asking for disaster. At any given point, CeCe would have wrapped a golden lock of hair around that whirring stick, instantly would have felt the pain, and would have begun to scream as loud as her lungs would allow her. Luckily, mom snatched her toothbrush before any harm was to be materialized, and thus she smiled to us and stepped forward to hug us. After this short break interrupting her clumsy packing, she resumed to her activity while asking us if the roads were good, if we were tired, and if we had spent a nice summer overall. We responded affirmative to her three separate inquiries, and proceeded to pose one of our own: why was she still not done packing even though she was leaving in two days? She explained to us that she had failed to successfully allocate the appropriate amount of time she required to empty the house. Dad and I couldn't help but laugh at her misery, though a serious, underlying issue was concealed by our mockery: how on Earth was she planning to move halfway across the world for work, with her suitcase still unready and the entire ground floor in a turmoil?

Dad started helping her with folding additional clothes, and placing them in her suitcase. I, on the other hand, separated as best as I could from mom's unrecognizable room, and went to my own. I was surprised to see that it hadn't changed in the least bit. My toys were still tucked-in under the blanket, my desk was still covered by past time-tables and random flyers, two T-shirts were still spread over my radiator, and my concert posters still clung to the wall (though the tape worn off in some corners, something I should fix soon). But the smell, how could I forget the smell of my room! It brought a sweet sense of comfort that I, for so long, was separated from. I breathed in for a moderate four seconds, and absorbed all of that nostalgia-induced odor. Then, I dropped my suitcase on the floor near my bed, and walked out of my room faster than I entered it.

I took a quick look at what progress mom and dad were achieving with the packing. With a quick wave of his hand, dad instructed me to go to the car and take care of the rest of our luggage. I acquiesced, although I would much rather have jumped in my bed and stared at the ceiling, just for the fun of it.

CeCe was also down by the time I had taken the stairs. She found some old trinkets amidst the scattered boxes and began playing outside in our little yard. Fulfilling the duties dad bestowed upon me, I emptied the car filled with our two-day supply of chips, sodas, dried meat, and crackers, along with our bags of books, jars of kompot, wine, and cheese. I made five trips from the car to the house, and back. My last trip was to get dad and I's backpacks, which I planned to take up the stairs and drop them in his room.

After seeing the ground's floor state about five times now, I admit I wasn't that shocked anymore. Behind the overwhelming scatter stood a figure of sorrow. I'm not sure whether this was a result of my emotional (and physical) fatigue, or if this feeling was naturally associated with my mom's moving out. Of course I had hoped to be sad, it's normal. But in that moment in felt strange. Up to now, I had been in constant movement; picking up heavy bags, walking across the yard, climbing the front stairs, walking to the kitchen, dropping the bags, walking across the kitchen to the front door, going down the front stairs, returning back to the car, and doing it all again. But now I stopped. Amidst the clutter physically surrounding me, and the noise populating my head, I found silence. It wasn't bring me peace though; it was odd. Not mind-numbing. Not eerie. Just, odd. I didn't know what to do with it. So, naturally, I sat with it. Well, I stood rather, because there wasn't very much room on the couch -- or anywhere, really -- for me to sit.

I stood there for quite some time. I appreciated what was left of my house; the naked walls, the messy dining room, the echoing halls, the creaky door. All of it. The atmosphere certainly was going to change with mom's absence. I knew that this was going to be my last year of high-school, but I felt the significance of it only now. It's like setting a date for a party with your friends; you can't wait to dance and laugh loudly, yet when the day comes you suddenly feel self-conscious and introverted, and no one can seem to drag you out of bed.

The sorrow figure slowly dissipated and welcomed a second figure of uncertainty; as if both forms were handing each other the baton in a relay race ocuring inside my head.

I didn't have time to think too much about it, because right now, I had a short-term issue to sort out: helping my mom move out.

I planned to help her, I really did. I just needed one more moment with myself, to enjoy how the house looked, and felt like, exactly as it is right now.

I was sure of fully experiencing it.