Chatterbox: Inkwell

We moved in just a few days ago.

The living room is full of boxes, but despite the constant moving and unpacking, dad's been in a good mood. His nicknames for me are running wild today--from Em, to Emmy, to Emmy-lee. Emmy, would you get the box of photos from the kitchen? Dad's gotta get the silverware out for your mom--thanks, Emmy-lee--would you put those on the mantle for me, Em? 

Before we moved, I kept telling dad that it was fine. I didn't like the old place, I said--and I thought I didn't. It was too small, too suburban, every surface painted some dull neutral color. Who cares if I grew up in it?

Then we moved here. Nice old house, big, with the largest yard I'd seen and the woods showing in the distance. I like it, mom likes it, dad likes it. Still, there's a feeling of being misplaced, that you're not exactly where you're supposed to be. With the house still a little unclean,with evidence that someone else has lived here--I guess I miss the old place a bit.

II keep finding little bits of paper around the house. Some are shreds, others scraps. We don't even have a trash bin set up, so I tuck them into a binder from some long-forgotten school project whenever I find them. Dad says I should walk them out to the outdoor trash can, but whatever.

It's just paper, right?