what we carry

I carry a single, small, square piece of art from my mother's home.  White and delicate, words spill from two ancient looking columns, so tiny you can only read them if you go real close.  When I found it in the pile of things maybe moving to storage, maybe to give away, maybe for her new home, I picked it up for the first time.  The miniscule words, the tiny script, jumped from the canvas:

travel
small things
responsibility

ice
poison
tuberculosis

sourness
body odor
monsters

shock
telephone
depths

Each word moved into the next, drew me in deeper, made me want to hold on to that little square for dear life.  Without asking, I dug some cloth napkins from out of the giant trash bag marked Goodwill.  They were also beautiful. Blue batik, the gray blue that used to be her favorite.  I wrapped the white square from all sides, as carefully as I could in the middle of the night, lights out, everyone asleep, me, wandering like a drunk, aimless and sad, trying to hold on to my mother's home.

The piece and her cloth encasement fit perfectly in one of my mother's old Coach bags which I now also, suddenly, needed to have.  I put the treasure in gently and zipped the expensive leather closed.

The next day as I moved from plane to plane, through airports and carports, over mountain passes and through state lines, I cared the most about that leather bag.  These strange objects that suddenly become heavy with meaning.

As I look at this piece now, as I squint to read the tiny words in the dim, twillight of spring in Montana, I think of the home I've left.  I hear the sounds on California Blvd as they race by my mom's window.  I smell the floral air and hear the heavy door slam against the rough salmon stucco as I make my way for a morning walk.  I lean forward and give my mom a kiss on the cheek in the morning, lie beside her in her bed, our stories and truths fall like rain.  She has books for me to read, Tivo clips I must see, brie and chardonnay, grapes and hummus.  Everything is just so.  Everything is always the same.  Predictable and organized.  How we are together so clear in that space. 

I still have my mother.  Her new home is where she needs to be, the rooms inside carry the same artistic aesthetic, teak and ceramic, perfectly framed photographs, all just so. 

But I don't have the same home to come back to.  And that's okay.  I'm a grown up now. 

We've grown smaller and smaller, our family unit.  To think all ten of us ever lived under the same roof, the boys bunked up in the garage, three teenage girls in one room, baby Hil in the walk in closet.  The way we were all thrust together.  My mom and dad making their way in a sea of random chaos.  Lives converge, voices shout, art lines the walls, bold and bright, odd and abstract, each piece another addition to the strange, strange story. 

My house was never like any else I'd known. 

One of my eighth graders complimented me on my necklace today.  Oh, my sister made it, I said proudly.  I thought your sister had the dance company, she said, knowing me so well.  Oh, that's my younger sister.  How many sisters do you have?  So I gave the always fun response.  I have five sisters and two brothers.  I told the story of the mixed marriages, how we were all thrust together, the madness and lessons and love. 

It's a hell of a story.  And yet here we are.  My mother passing out her precious possessions like Halloween candy, my father asking me to tell him what my favorites are on the wall, he wants to put all his stuff in storage, travel and take on the world, save some money. 

fatigue
gravity
infinity

standing
swallowing
being alone

The words take us in so many directions. 
The words hold us together. 

And I'm full of gratitude.  Gratitude for my mom and dad, for their health, for the way they love me.  For their passion and conviction, strong personalities.  For the deliberate and unique ways they move through the world. 

My home is inside of me.