Moving On

By the time we’d moved from the house in Indian Hills to the one in Gallup proper, I’d already left behind six homes that I remembered, but it was the first time I’d looked around at the empty rooms since we’d moved in.  

Did the carpets all have little snags? Had we abandoned so much crap—like Legos and scraps of paper? Were all the air-conditioning vents those weak rectangles smashed into the floor? 

All that was left was the detritus, ground in dried food, stains, and yellowing white paint on the walls. If I could, I’d point to where sat the sofa or hung the earth-tone paintings, photos, and prints. Instinct alone could have led me to my former bedroom, because I didn’t recognize it at all. 

And then it hit me. “This place looks so much smaller now,” I said. 

“You mean bigger?” my dad clarified. 

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