I came home from nine months overseas and found my entire life packed into black trash bags.Not boxes.Trash bags.They were lined up along the wall of the front hallway like somebody had set them out for Tuesday pickup. Eleven of them. I counted. Some were tied tight at the top. Some had split along the sides, and I could see the corner of a textbook poking through one, and the sleeve of a sweatshirt hanging out of another.I stood there with my duffel bag still on my shoulder and the front door still open behind me.The house smelled different. Like vanilla candles and somebody else’s laundry soap.For a second, I honestly thought I’d walked into the wrong house.Then I saw the dent in the hallway wall, the one I’d made when I was fourteen, carrying a bookshelf up the stairs with my grandfather. He’d laughed so hard he had to sit down on the steps. “Leave it,” he’d said. “Now the house has a story.”The dent was still there.So this was my house.And these were my things.I set my duffel down on the floor, very carefully, the way you set something down when you’re not sure what’s going to happen next. Then I knelt in front of the nearest bag and untied it.
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