It is a beautiful day. The sky is a distinct shade of azure and the cool breeze blows your hair around as you search the skies for scattered clouds. The day could not be romanticized any further. I wonder if I could jinx its beauty by thinking about it.

So when I walk into my room at Wheatshocker and find a notice slipped under the door, I curse myself for jinxing the day.

The notice says to get rid of all major personal furniture during the next few weeks. I stand looking at the room I furnished from scratch, and all I feel is despair.

My mind goes back to the day I flew to Wichita from India. “For the third time,” the polite elderly woman at the housing department said, “If we had furnished rooms, we would provide you with one.” So I went to my room to sleep on the floor, staring at the ceiling all night long.

I was used to sleeping on the floor. So it was not the hard ground that bothered me. The floor has no headboard, so I never knew which way to sleep. I ended up sleeping like a windmill, spinning on the center of the floor.

Soon I began furnishing my room. Before I knew it, every piece of furniture was like family. I would have named them, but I avoided it, afraid I would end up in a psychiatric ward. Regardless of the day I had, they were always there for me. In a dynamic and morphing life, they were the constants that kept me grounded in reality.

The notice in my hand was all that stood between us.

The Housing Department never asked us how we felt about it. Apparently, they want us saved from the attack of bed bugs because they care about us. So, while half of us are on vacation, we receive awkward phone calls informing us about the immediate steps we must take to comply with new requirements, all because the Housing Department cares for us, oh-so-deeply.

Unaware of other feasible options, I guess it is a bon voyage to my furniture.