Uncommon Places

I am one. Daddy is pushing me in my stroller while I sleep. Mummy is holding the stuffed animals she won for me. Different sounds boomerang all around, and the scent of deep-fried food settles in the hippocampus of my brain. A red balloon is tied to my wrist. I am protected.

I am five and I can hear mummy calling me. "Time for dinner, Suzanna!" She is cooking pasta. The windows are all fogged up from the steam, so I draw hearts in the condensation. My art is displayed on the windows, refrigerator, and sometimes on the walls. I am Picasso.

I am ten and I love to play outside with my best friend, Beverly. We go to the pool and swim until we get hungry. I run up the stairs in a towel, dripping wet. Mummy is on the sofa with the old, dirty lamp sitting on the side table next to her. I love that lamp. I hear Columbo in the background, “Just one more thing.” Peter Falk says in his chalky voice. "Suzaaaanna!" She would call out excitedly whenever I would walk through the front door. This comfort will never leave me. I am joy.

I am fifteen and It’s my birthday so I beg my mom for a cat. She says “go ask your father”. I bring home a lonely kitten that day. Mary is her name and she is NOT friendly but she is safe now. I blow out my candles and my father hugs me. A long and desperate hug. He is drunk. The scent of wine and cigarettes on him is both putrid and comforting, and I can't explain why. I cheers him with a diametrically opposed cocktail of love and resentment. I hate this life, I hate my father for loving the bottle more than me, and I hate my mother for exploding in her fits of rage. I want to run away with Mary and my suitcase of big dreams. I am broken.

I am seventeen and I have found passion in the vast world of art, film, and literature. The brilliance of Al Green, Arthur Miller and Aretha Franklin, turn my world upside down. I lose myself in paint and photography, finding solace in creating. I am fire.

I am twenty, beautiful, and in love for the first time in my life. I am on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about his blue eyes and funny smile. A Don McLean song plays in the background. I love being in love in my room. I hope these butterflies last forever. I work at a small movie theatre. It is simple work but it brings me joy. I stand in the back of the theatre and watch the people react to whatever is on the blazing silver screen. This fascinates me. Hopefully, no one will notice I’m not working. I am alive.

I am twenty-five, wishing I could start all over again. Heartbroken, unemployed, and living with my parents again. Good ol' Mary is 10 and down to two whiskers. My old room is different now, with almost no signs of my youth anywhere. I once sat on the very same bed, many times in love and many more, heartbroken. Time is moving too fast and I can’t stop it. Do I get married now? Do I have kids? Should I go back to school? Who am I supposed to be? I am fear.

I am thirty and the paint is peeling in my parents' apartment. The bathroom is riddled with mold. No money for repairs. They tell me their home will be torn down soon, to make room for new development. Where will they go? I will lose the comfort of this dilapidated building. I am grown now but I have never truly felt at home anywhere else. I know every creak, texture, and smell. Its open arms are ready to embrace me at a moment's notice, but not for much longer. The underpinning of impermanence hurts like hell. I am pain.

I am forty. I have everything I thought I was supposed to have at this age but I am not happy. I don't care how great my life looks from the outside. I have lost so much of myself building a life that doesn't reflect who I am. I am hopelessness.

I am fifty-five and my children are married. I hope they are happy and comfortable. I hope I passed onto them, all the good in me. I am their comfort.

I am seventy and I have grandchildren. They are beautiful and brilliant. We read and bake together, and I tell them stories of days gone by. They love my photo albums and my eclectic compendium of music and film. I am the past.

I am ninety (I think), and I miss my home. I miss the smell of pasta cooking and the sound of my father pouring wine, and Mary warming my feet. I miss the paint peeling on the ceiling and the sound of the wind chime on the baloney. I miss the moldy bathroom and my mother's voice calling my name. I miss the sound of my children playing music in their rooms, and our Sunday morning pancakes. I miss the pure joy I have always felt to be alive, even during my deepest disparities. Memories are all I have now, and can’t imagine another life - wouldn't want to. I would relive it all, just to experience these small comforts in uncommon places once again. I am grateful.