What was left behind was a bag of toys to be donated to the church down the street.
What was left behind was the couch whose pillows we had used as walls of our fortresses.
What was left behind was the jungle gym we had hung from and the blacktop where we learned to ride our bikes.
What was left behind was the cool sand we played bocce ball on and the waves we dove under.
What was left behind was all the firsts: the house where I said my first words, the book that you first read out loud, the porch where I had my first kiss.
What was left behind was the spices, vegetables, and grains we used to cook our favorite foods.
What was left behind behind was our safe havens: that place in the yard where I would go to hide when I didn't want to be found; the tree you climbed so you could feel like you were on top of the world.
What was left behind was the land our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had grown up on; the places where our family's memories were.
What was left behind was the people we went to for help; who gave us advice; who held our hand when we were scared, or sad, or nervous.
What was left behind was community, respect, and love.
What was left behind was familiarity: knowing how much it cost to mail a letter, where the best place to buy milk was, how to file our taxes and apply for a job, familiar idioms and slang, and knowing just how much to push for what we wanted.
What was left behind was the certainty of knowing exactly where we belonged.