rearranging

She moves the couch to the other wall, the armchair to the window. The coffee table is now in the corner, the TV on the opposite wall. She steps back, surveys her handiwork. The room looks different, but also somehow the same. She's been rearranging the furniture for weeks, ever since she found out she had to move. It's a way of delaying the inevitable, of putting off the moment when she'll have to leave. She knows it's futile, but she can't help herself. She moves the bookshelf to the other side of the room, the books spilling out onto the floor. She kneels down, starts to pick them up. As she works, she thinks about all the other times she's moved. The different apartments, the different cities. She's always been a little restless, a little dissatisfied. She wonders if she'll ever find a place that feels like home.