Dear pompom (that means you, like dear diary),

I like ABBA. That sentence still feels too small for how normal it feels to say it, like it should come with more explanation but somehow doesn’t need any.

We went bowling tonight, and the place felt like it was permanently stuck between neon lights and laughter that never quite finished echoing. The lanes were glowing like they were trying to pretend they were more important than they are.

At some point, I stopped feeling like I was just “bowling” and started feeling like I had stepped into one of those scenes where life forgets you’re supposed to be self-conscious. I was dancing between turns, smiling too easily, moving like I had been 8 years old for a couple hours instead of 13.

It wasn’t even just happiness—it was that strange kind where you forget to monitor yourself. Like the version of me that usually watches everything from the back of my mind just quietly left the room.

ABBA was there in the background of it all, steady and normal in a way that made everything feel safe without needing words.

I didn’t feel little in a baby way. More like… time briefly stopped asking me to grow up.

For a while, I wasn’t trying to be older or younger. I was just there—laughing, bowling, existing—like the world had loosened its grip for a couple of hours and decided I didn’t need to be anything complicated.

And then we left, and I remembered I’m 13 again. But it didn’t feel like losing something. More like putting something gently back on a shelf and knowing I can pick it up again someday, I just hope that day comes very soon

Dear Pompom,

I mentioned the bowling because it happened most recently, but it wasn’t the biggest part of today.

Today, we packed the house.

It’s strange how a house can look so different without actually changing. Every box that disappeared somehow made the rooms feel twice as large and twice as empty, like the walls had started echoing memories instead of voices.

I’ve moved before, so moving itself isn’t new. But this was different. Mom has always worked some kind of moving magic—by the time we arrived somewhere new, beds were made, furniture was in place, and the old house had quietly become a memory before I ever had to see it disappear.

This time, I watched it happen.

I watched pictures come off the walls, shelves lose their purpose, and rooms slowly forget what they were for. It felt a little like watching the last page of a book erase itself one sentence at a time.

It’s bittersweet, because I know the farm is going to be incredible. In so many ways, it’s the answer to prayers I’ve had for years—a dream that somehow escaped imagination and wandered into real life.

But dreams still ask you to leave something behind.

This house held a lot. Some memories I’d gladly pack up and take with me forever. Others I wouldn’t mind accidentally leaving in a dusty corner somewhere. It held birthdays and ordinary Tuesdays, laughter and tears, seasons I never thought would end, and seasons I was glad finally did.

Maybe houses aren’t really made of wood and drywall.

Maybe they’re made of moments.

And today, I watched ours get folded into cardboard boxes.