'Fuzzy' By Jane Smiley: A Narrative Fiction

I heaved the large and surprisingly heavy box of DVDs and CDs into the back of our 1997 4runner. The strong, southern sun beat down through the ancient oak tree’s branches above as we finished packing the car. The day had been slow, and I could feel a throbbing soreness in my arms from continuously lifting objects into the moving truck earlier that day. I couldn’t, and didn’t want to believe that we would soon be leaving the world I had always known. I glanced back at our ranch and the barn that stood nearby. I saw the chipped paint on the fences surrounding our huge yard, filled with long grass and Georgia dirt. It was finally happening. I would likely never see “our” ranch again. I pushed the thought away as I concentrated on the task at hand. I tried to
“His name is Fuzzy, and you have to promise to take good care of him, alright?” She nodded, her curly pigtails bobbing along. I handed Fuzzy to her and she immediately placed him carefully in the front pocket of her overalls. I couldn’t help but give a smile as she ran back towards Mama, shouting, “Looky! Looky!”.
I walked back through the soft grass, stepping onto the little pathway that led to our back door. I opened the screen door, walking into our old living room; though, it was more like looking into a room I had never seen before. It was vacant, missing our various pieces of furniture that had lived and entertained us for years. The red, comfy couch no longer sat against the wall, inviting us to sit down. Our bookshelves, full of stories and fairytales that Mama would read to me, were gone, in some moving truck on its way to Indiana at that very moment. And lastly, our ancient family clock, the one that had been passed down for multiple generations, was absent from its place on the mantle. If I thought hard enough, I could remember and imagine the laughter of people and the aroma of southern cooking all throughout the