Shifting homes

So how is it like shifting homes? The boxes are labelled,
 clothes, books, miscellaneous, there are your dolls in
 the other one, do you remember how you occupied
 a whole room with them and their stories, and you hated
 anyone mishandling them? Do you remember how in that
 corner you discovered the joy of reading and the immensity
 of the worlds you stumbled over in them, and in that corner
 your brother had picked up a lizard  as a five year old, crawling
 on his knees, as chubby as you please, now he is older, leaner
, do you remember how you thought you would be possessed
 by an evil spirit if you touched the tall tree in the backyard,
 they told you it was a sacred tree, there had been rituals to
 cleanse that house of evil elements, you remember Mum
calling you back for dinner when all you wanted was to keep
 on playing, running, you bruised your knee many times,
you still have those marks, you can't get yourself to discard
 the terribly old tshirt you got from Disneyland so you keep
 it in those boxes, then there are letters which you wrote
 to yourself from school, you used to treat your sister like a doll,
dress her up and pretend you were magicians, you can't
remember the last time you played, sometimes you don't
 even realize the extent of your missing and mourning, the five
 years in this house will be forgotten in a matter of time, new
 people will inhabit it, but all the falling in love,bursting into tears,
 laughing uncontrollably and growing-up you did, it all happened in this house.

So the writer and the poet say

It gets all right in the end of the story, the writer says
Monday begins grudgingly, resentfully, dread spread like
 poison in your purple veins, green at your wrists, sometimes
 you walk past it like a somnambulist , nodding , obliging them
 with a smile, your eyes light up at moments, dulls and becomes
 heavy lidded when overcome by afternoon sleep, but you don't
 sleep. Tuesday gives you rain, mugs of coffee and blankets
 of love, you hum old tunes into his ear, he smiles back at you
but you despair as the day comes to a close, parting for the night
 leaves you feeling slightly cold. Wednesday rushes past,
you devour written words, news of faraway lands, stare at
 faces of people with brown hair, black , golden, criminals,
 politicians, starlets, you imagine the houses by the sea, the cruel
 mountain tops, quaint houses and  cobbled streets, the Kumbh Mela
 at the banks of the Ganga. Thursday is for old acquaintances,
 reminiscing about childhood idiosyncrasies, a biscuit divided
 among four friends, prank letters written and received, ghost stories
 told. Friday is spent with a book, soaking up the warmth of the winter
 sunlight, nibbling on strawberries with chocolate cream, you are amazed
 at the heightened sense you feel of the world around you,
 overwhelming in their incredulity. Saturday tortures you with deaths
 sometimes, the vast scope of the human life, its various possibilities
 yet so limited sometimes, its heartbreaking misery, you miss
 the embracing magnanimity of home, of Mum braiding your hair when
 you were a little girl, of pushing your sister's tricycle, of going for
evening walks with your brother and your dog.Sunday morning makes
 you restless,waking up late never became you, the not-knowing of
 the rest of the day, but he will come to you or you will go to him,
 nothing is too hard to solve, even imagined grief passes,he imitates
 your scowl, you are laughing again, he is laughing too.
 Even the poet says, it gets alright by the end of the week.