My hair is growing out, and it's fuzzy and mussed, flat in spots, but soft now. I have little, penny sized bruises on arms and legs from hefting the cardboard corners of boxes while I opened many doors to many rooms. I have this little bump under my right eye where Byzantine bumped me with his knee during a tickle fight while he was visiting me that isn't going away yet. My skin is dry and white from plaster, from pieces of tile that have been knocked loose from their place on my bathroom floor, from the tops of doorways not yet dusted.

My car is littered with pieces of my former home, with crumbs from morning meals. I've sweat some layers of my skin in those seats during the short stints from place to place, loading and unloading the same 3 milk crates for three days like a long and steady parade.

I am unkempt, swung about and swaying. The night salts my hair and peppers my tired eyes. But I am happy.