3x5

I haven't written much lately. My thoughts have been generally on
unpublishable things. If not unpublishable, then more difficult to
publish.

Today I was woken by three loud knocks on our door. I didn't really
stir. Three louder knocks followed. I jumped out of bed, began to dress,
and heard three knocks, louder still. I ran to the door, ran out, and
saw a woman talking to our neighbor. She was pointing to our house,
asking if she might try the downstairs basement door.

"Hello?" I questioned.
"Are you Craig?" she questioned back.
"...Yes"
She held up a backpack. The backpack I'd lost six months ago, and given
up on shortly thereafter.

"WHAT? You're KIDDING me! I called the lost and found at that place
repeatedly, they insisted they didn't have it."

"There's more than on lost and found. I work there." That would have
been good to know when I called the same lost and found at Thanksgiving
Point every day for over a week, and they were less than useless. I was
disconnected twice, told I would be called back twice (never was), and
generally told I couldn't be helped.

"Wow, thank you sooo Much!" She was already walking to her car,
seemingly in a hurry. As she fled, I asked her name. "Pam."

"Thank you, Pam." She was gone before I could even ask any further
questions, or compliment her on her name. That's my mother's name.

The bag itself is nothing to scream about, and the contents no more
enticing. Half a stick of hair wax. A five year old two megapixel
camera. A paperback of "None Dare Call it Conspiracy" with the D.I.
sticker still on it (50¢). Gum and fruit snacks. I'm guessing she found
me by the Independent Study paperwork with my address on there (no phone
number). Nothing valuable to anybody but me. I'm glad to have it all
back.

I was packing all day today. I made piles, and put things in boxes. A
box for D.I. A box for eBay. A box to throw away. A box to keep and
store and probably not open again for years. A couple boxes to take with
me to Washington.

I'm moving to Washington. Moving always reminds me of when my grandpa
died. We went to his house to clean everything out before selling it.
Moving always feels like I've died a little. It's silly. I've only been
here a year. But going through things, I remember so much. Planners from
my mission, notes my roommates passed me at church, drawings I did in
class to stay awake, pictures of old girlfriends. It reminds me of all
those times, and reminds me of time itself.

I'm not dying. Little parts of me aren't dying, at least not any more
than any other day or time. Time is pretty constant, it doesn't speed up
or slow down when you're looking through the scraps of past years.
Relativity says that if anything, moving fast is supposed to slow down
time, not jumble it, not make it speed up or mix it around. But I guess
Einstein had a different context in mind.

The job looks like it will be great, but I can't shake that moving
feeling, call it motion sickness. I'm driving myself to a place where
I've never been, I don't know anybody, and I don't even have an
apartment yet. I'm sure it'll all come together, but in the meantime,
I'll keep packing, keep making piles and putting things in boxes.

I'll let you know how it all turns out. I'll send a postcard.

-Sent from Austin's phone.