I walk to the moving truck. I have to get the last box: there is Dad's baseball bat and all his work tools.

What good lessons he used to give me.
"Remember, Paul! The car, when it has a part that's wrong, you have to replace it right away. Don't wait too long, because that broken part, in time, can lead to something more serious." Or. "You have to do prevention! Prevention is better than cure. The car is like the human body. Only the human body sometimes heals itself."

Sometimes heals itself...
Dad, sometimes...

Here's the box. It's two steps away, maybe I don't even need to climb up.
Belly pressing on the edge of the truck, I reach out and grab the last box. This is the most important one of all!

I pull it toward me: the most I get is just the swing of the baseball bat. From this position, I can't get close to it.

I give it a tug to make it move. Yikes! It does not move an inch! I give another sharp tug, and the two corners of the cardboard are torn off. Oh, shit!

I drop it and get into the truck. I never want to move again in my whole life. What an effort!
I do it for Mom, though: she didn't want to stay in the old house anymore. Too many memories...

Inside, the truck is lined with wood and is full of scratches.
Who knows how many people dragged heavy objects on this jalopy.

Every single scratch could tell a story.

The story of someone who separated from wife or husband and felt the need to leave; someone who found a better job in another city and saw this event as an opportunity to improve his or her life; perhaps, someone who moved because the old house he or she lived in had too many traces of a happy life that no longer belonged to him or her...

This box on the ground, it means a lot to me. I reach down so I can lift it up, but my attention goes to a scratch caused by who knows what piece of furniture or desk. Just above it, there is an inscription carved into the wood.

"Fuck you!"

I smile. Someone must have been angry, I guess.

I like being here: it is a place where people will have cried, rejoiced or, even, punched the walls.

But, somehow, I like to think that these simple wooden walls have helped someone change their life. And, now it's our turn.

I grab the box with two hands and pull it up. Boy, it is heavy. I can never jump down with this weight.

I prop it on the edge and climb down without it.

Mom picks up one of the many boxes outside the house and carries it to the front door. "Paul, come on! Hurry up!"

"Yes, Mom. I'm coming."

I want to leave my mark on this truck, too. I want to leave the signature. That way, someone will be able to see it and think something nice.

My mouth twists into a half-smile and I touch the keys to the new house in my pocket.

Maybe, the next person who uses this jalopy will be fascinated by all these scratches and think about how many people it has housed.

I scratch my head.

Or, he will see an old truck that would be worth changing: a poorly aged clunker formed by a large metal box resting on four wheels. Once he puts the furniture inside, he will notice that ruined wood, badly treated by old customers, he will huff and puff and think that he couldn't afford something better.

"Paul, hurry up! I can't do this all by myself." She picks up another box and carries it inside. "There's a lot of stuff to sort out."

"Here I am."

I grab the box and lift it up by weight.

A boy, looking like a mountain, greets me. "Hi, tiring moving, huh?" He smiles and pats the back of his head.

"Yes, we just got here."

"I also moved three years ago."

The box makes me wince with fatigue. "Was it hard?"

The big guy sees me struggling. "Hold on, I'll help you." He hugs the box and lifts it with extreme ease. "Pretty heavy, huh?"

"Not for you."
He snatches a smile from me.

"Being big must be good for something."

"Sure, it has its advantages."

"You know where being big doesn't help?"

I don't want to offend him, better to keep quiet and wait for his answer.

"In the car! If there are other people in the car, I see them suffering when I get in."

I smile, but not too much. He made the joke, I don't think he was offended by my laughter. "By the way, I'm Paul."

"Nice to meet you. Lucas. Where should I put this?" He shakes the box in his arms, as if it were a bag of popcorn.

"If you'd like, you should take it to my place."

"Yeah, come on. I'll give it a workout."

I lead the way to him in the driveway of my house. We scan two boxes and Mom walks out the door.

"Paul, you made it..." She realizes Lucas. "Hi, nice to meet you I'm Julia."

"Lucas." He makes room, lays that boulder on the ground and holds out his hand.

Mom shakes it for him. "Do you live nearby?"

"Yes, I live across the street."

"Ah, good. Thanks for your help." She looks around. "Can I offer you a juice?"

"No, thank you. I wanted to meet Paul, but I have to get home to my mother."

"Ah, okay. Can I meet her so I can introduce myself?"

"Maybe some other time." He adjusts his purple shirt. "She has the flu, better let her rest."

Mom nods her head. "Sure. Sure. In such cases you have to rest a lot."

"Hello!" A lady with straight brown hair looks out the front door.

Mom approaches. "Hello."

"I saw the truck... I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Caterina, I live next door to you." She points to the house to our right

"I'm Julia." She points to me. "And this is my son Paul."

"Nice to meet you."

Lucas pats me on the back. "Bye, Paul. I have to go, you know, my mother..."

"Bye. Thanks for the help."

"See you these days. School starts in a little while." He smiles and leaves.

I'd better go so Mom can talk to the neighbor for a while. I'm glad she's making new friends. Lucas has already entered his house and I approach the truck.

This place is not bad. The neighbors are courteous and I may have already made friends with Lucas.

From Catherine's house, there is a girl with headphones on her ears.
Will she be the daughter?
I greet her, she reciprocates, but turns away almost immediately.
Still, she looks nice seen from here.

I get to the truck and slip the house keys out of my pocket. Where do I write?
I choose the right corner of the truck, so I don't even have to jump on it.

I think about it for two seconds. There is nothing to think about. I carve into the wood.

"I love you, Dad."

I pull up with my nose and Mom is still talking to the neighbor. I sigh. We can start over from here.

We can start from scratch.
Together we will make it, Mom.