Another short piece written in class about the state of being in between:
The last of my boxes was dragged out to the street and hoisted into a van by a large moving man, who then slammed shut the back doors.
"See you there," he yelled as he climbed into the front seat next to an even larger moving man.
I watched the truck drive away, grabbed my knapsack and the carrier with my cat, and hailed a cab. I could have taken the subway—I was going only a few stops from Queens to Manhattan—but the occasion seemed to demand a grander entrance.
There was no traffic over the Triboro Bridge. All the landmarks I used to see from my bedroom window—the Citicorp building, the big red, flashing "History Channel" sign—moved from one side of my sight to the other. We reached my new building and life, and I took the elevator up to my apartment. I had no furniture yet, so sat in sunlight on the newly-finished wood floor and waited.
A half-hour passed, then another. Everything I owned, as well as everything my parents had owned that ended up in my closets after they died, and a lot of stuff their parents owned, as well, were in a truck somewhere between Queens and Manhattan, and I didn't know where. Another hour passed. The sun began to set; it was cold on the floor. The cat and I wondered what it might feel like in this new life, alone by choice, without any reminders of the memories we thought we could rely on. It was terrifying, yet oddly freeing.
Finally, an hour later, there was a knock on my door. "Sorry, we stopped for a burger," said the big moving man sheepishly. I was almost sad to see him, along with the weight of my life behind him in the van.