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.

Dear pompom,

I learned today that boredom is a privilege.

Not in the poetic, soft way people usually say it—but in the practical, slightly ironic way farming life teaches it to you without asking permission. Free time is treated like something rare and slightly suspicious, like it only shows up if everything else has already been handled.

When I’m “bored,” it’s not really because I can’t think of anything to do. It’s because I’m standing in one of those in-between moments—waiting for the next job, the next task, the next thing that quietly decides what the day becomes. There isn’t much room to just drift into something interesting, because something else is usually already lined up to replace it.

I guess there is free time. It just looks different. It mostly arrives at night, when everything finally stops asking anything from me. Sleep becomes the only real pause button the day offers.

And still… I don’t hate it. There’s something steady about it. Something that makes even the busy parts feel like they belong somewhere.

But in the quieter spaces between everything, I notice something else too.

I miss friends.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the simple way of realizing that life is full, but not always shared. Like there’s a conversation happening somewhere I’m not currently part of, and I can hear it faintly, even when everything else is loud.

And I think I’m okay.

Just… aware of that distance, while still moving through the day anyway.