One might also remember the small things about growing up there. The slushiness of the winters, the thick skin-drenching humidity of the summers, and the uncomparable window rattling thunderstorms that occur each and every year. I also remember the slant of my driveway, the smell of my kitchen and the uncomfortable layout of my living room. I'll never forget the way the basement stairs creak, the windows that let in too much glare to watch TV but not enough light to be useful for reading, and how the vastness of the house echoes everything on the main floor while the narrow hallways of the upper floors muffle the sounds from below for restless sleepers.

It comes to a point where, whether you like it or not, your life is ready to move on. On the precipice of a new stage of your life, you will inevitably lose some things in the move. The question is, how do you remember? Do you want to remember? Stories, pictures, videos - often times they seem so expendable, extraneous, and annoying. But then digging through the pack-rats box that we all keep, hopefully you'll spend hours and hours dreaming on how things were; may they be that way again, somehow and sometime.