July 21
I lived in Daddy’s condo from birth to college. With Mama, I moved seven times. The condo was my consistent home base to grow and feel safe as the other half of my family jetted through unending change. My sister and I slept in the second bedroom with a deep blue carpet and yellow walls. Every morning the sun bent around the vinyl window shades and through the sheer curtains to bathe the room in golden light. We plastered our painted dresser with stickers, taped artwork to the walls, and glued plastic stars to the ceiling. It was wholly, uniquely ours.
Mama first moved to a hotel room on the night she left home; we swam at the indoor pool and skipped school the next day. Over the next few years, we skimmed through apartments, a friend’s basement, a bright town home, and rented ranchers before landing permanently with my new step-family in a large, split-level house. Through each move, I whittled my belongings at Mama’s and piled them up at Daddy’s house like a wave shoving sand toward the beach. Things weren’t always safe at Mama’s between the black hole of the moving trucks and my new siblings’ prying hands; I learned to lock up candy, horde CDs, and swap out a few pieces of clothing at a time.
The more I lost control over my space at Mama’s, the more my stuff became my safe haven at Daddy’s. I stacked old magazines along the blue carpet, piled up too-small clothes and baby toys in closets, and curated a collection of old makeup under the bathroom sink. Every piece was a star in my own, personal galaxy, holding me in its center and wrapping me in heavy, empty space. I rebuilt my shelter in the crack of a broken home to keep from falling through.
Daddy called a week into my sophomore year to say he was selling the condo to avoid bankruptcy. I knew his business was struggling; earlier that summer, I had used my tip money to buy us groceries and cut the lights back on. Now, I was three hours from home with two weeks’ notice and no transportation. Mama and my step-family came over to help Daddy pack up my room for storage. The old magazines were tossed, clothing donated, and books packed away in boxes. Nothing was sacred to new, hurried eyes under stress. By Christmas, a new child was living in my bedroom and my stuff was sitting in a storage unit. I was scattered.
Back at school, I had my first panic attack. Most nights I dreamt I was back at the condo; I would curiously walk through the front door to find everything exactly in its place. Then I would wake up and remember all over again.
Twenty years later, with Daddy in a nursing home, I went through the last of the boxes from the condo. In some, I found my college summers frozen in time; others held snapshots of elementary school, sports victories, and tiny treasures collected from fairs and amusement parks. I picked up a handwritten note from high school and carefully undid its origami folds. The memory of that time shot forward; it was so familiar and yet, it was another life. Faster and faster I began picking up objects from the box and holding them one at a time, trying to feel any warm buzz of energy - a familiar, comforting heaviness. But there was nothing. No stars, no galaxy, no security. It was just scattered stuff, now found.
