I've spent the past couple days preparing for my move (into a storage unit) and I've come to the conclusion that I'm a terrible packer. I end up doing things like reading old journals cover to cover (hilariously fascinating), falling asleep when I think I'm folding clothes, and making strawberry coffee cake for no good reason.
Packing makes me terribly nostalgic. This apartment is the first place that felt like home to me in Charleston. I still remember how absolutely giddy I felt moving in -- I declared my love for it in a letter, spent weeks decorating my kitchen, hosted my first dinner party (and then went on to have a magical autumn garden party), spotted multiple rainbows over Colonial Lake, and spent many rainy days in the kitchen pretending to be Julia Child.
Reasons I will survive packing: my mother (because she is doing most of it, bless her), the Amelie soundtrack, and these cupcakes from Sugar (my favorite bakery), brought by thoughtfully and unexpectedly by a sweet friend.
P.S. I'm glad I will always have this visual from my kitchen.