The Weight of Eight Years

The van was smaller than I expected. I had imagined a big truck, the kind of vehicle that swallows a whole life in one go. This was just a small white van, the cheapest one they had for transport. Still, it would do.

I started in the morning. While I was carrying boxes down the stairs, the old woman from the flat below watched me from her door. She had watched me move in, eight years before, when I was younger and the boxes felt lighter.

I loaded the heavy things first — the table, the bookshelf, the bed. I worked slowly, because the weight was real and my back is not what it was. Box after box went into the back of the van. Books, plates, a lamp that never worked properly but that I could not throw away.

The flat grew empty behind me. While I was sweeping the last room, I noticed how the light came in differently when there was no furniture. Bigger. Sadder. I had spent eight years in those four small rooms, and now they were just rooms again, waiting for someone else.

I carried the last box out myself. It was not heavy — just a few photos and an old clock. The van was full. A lorry would have been too much; this little vehicle held everything I owned, and that surprised me.

The old woman from below came out as I closed the doors.

“You're really going, then,” she said.

“I am,” I said. “New job. New city.”

She nodded slowly. “It was nice having you upstairs.”

I had not expected that. I'd thought we were just two people who shared a building. I got into the van, started it, and looked once more at the window that used to be mine. Then I drove away, the whole weight of eight years rattling quietly in the back.