I put my whole life in boxes and it does not fill many. This surprises me. A cave holds a person for years and years, and when the person leaves, the cave lets go so easy. Here is the wall my hand knew in the dark. Here is the low ledge where I slept, too small for me now, and I remember when it was too big.
I find old teeth of my younger self everywhere. A stone I kept because it was blue. Marks on the door-post, low, lower, higher, where someone measured me growing like a tree. A dead firefly-box that showed me pictures. Bones of small hunts that felt large.
The tribe helps me carry. My mother touches the empty place where my ledge was and makes no sound, which is a loud sound. My father lifts the heaviest box and calls it light, and I let him keep that.
I have hunted many seasons to leave this cave. Now I stand in the doorway and my feet do not want to go, and I do not understand my own feet.
The room keeps my smell a little longer than I keep the room.
This is how the young leave the fire: certain, and looking back.