Moving in pieces

I remember when I moved the last time. I always new the move was coming, so I never hung up pictures of even painted. The house had that rental feeling and when I packed things in boxes- It was as If I had never even occupied the home. There were no wholes on the walls where my pictures used to hang or the painted difference the painting might have left on my sun kissed walls. Instead I had my boxes packed and suitcases closed and the only thing that made me feel like I ever lived there- were the pictures I had taken of my daughter spending her second year in that house. Snapshots of how she aged in different places. The highchair she had propped against the kitchen wall, her toys and the way I had bought custom made gates to seal her into her room. I have pictures of her in her excersaucer smiling. Now, I don't have that excersaucer anymore or even the toy chest in the background- but i remember how that house was good to us. It was our home for a year and in my line up of memories it has its place.

I remember the movers for that move were horrible. I had a shelf I had hand built for the hubby and they had destroyed it. When it ended up in our new house, it was in so many pieces, that it was easiest to just toss it into the garbage. I didn't even have to break it. Now, that's a job well done.

I also remember having to move quickly at the end. At first, we packed leisurely. Neatly stacking our winter clothes, our holiday ornaments. Then a bit faster, with the "honey, don't forget to wrap the glass wares." Then frantic, "I think we forgot the toys. the toys. Wheres the box that's marked toy room?" To which I got the, "where we actually marking boxes." look.

And then there was the chaos. I remember walking back and forth between the moving truck. Just tossing unpacked items in. A candelabra and a bag full of candles. A toy car, some batteries in a toolbox. A shopping bag of laundry. Phones with the cords still attached.

When the moving truck arrived at our new home and made a pile of our odds and ends (and the broken shelf sticking out like a maimed trophy) I felt like I had pieces of myself scattered around. I wanted to put everything in its place, but yet- I didn't have a space for them yet.

Moving makes you toss out the things you kept for safekeeping. The things you believed would stay tucked in that drawer till your granddaughter took it out and asked "why?" Moving makes you remember. It makes you look at a room that's empty of furniture and photos and makes you conjure up a moment that the room once held.

I find myself looking at the almost empty rooms in my childhood home. The one that's being sold and cleared out for a new family. I have so many memories to hold onto. I tug at them and carry them with me. Holding each tightly. When I make it back to the house I live in now, I just drop them. They feel scalding hot with emotion. Memories of me playing baseball in the back. Sinking into the white couches. Hearing the voices of my siblings while I tried to fall asleep. The sound of the door unlocking. The way we wheeled into the kitchen with our feet in the fisher price bus- like rollerblading. But, more imaginative.

The house was good to us. It is hard to believe that I will not be making more memories there. Nor will my kids. I am not the one moving. That was done years ago on my wedding day. But, the house still has little tokens for me and my mothers saves them or discards them as she packs. I see my siblings packing with the same effort I had once extended. The peaceful pack and then the raging rush. I am choosing to close my eyes and reopen them only when the door is closed and we have all taken our memories out.

The last memory I will take with me is the backhanded way we locked the front door, racing to get to the driveway. I will see the silk flowers my father planted in what I hope was a joke and the eleven tulips.

I will tell myself that no matter what renovation or fancy upgrades our childhood home undergoes, if i ever go back and ask to enter- I will find it the same. The white stool at the foot of the kitchen. The kitchen table with our newspapers and books. I will be able to sit down and wait till someone gets me some salmon or eggs and I'll ask someone to pass the mayonnaise jar that's open on the counter.