Wandering

I’ve packed so many trash bags full of memories over the years that it feels unbelievable people actually hire movers to move their belongings.

When I was 18 years old, I wrote a short story about how I had moved at least 22 times in my short life.

I’ve lived with multiple friends, inside a few vehicles, and in three of my own apartments since writing that short story.

My parents were addicts. Lines, bumps, and quick rushes of euphoria were their home.

They never really bothered to keep a stable roof over my head.

I’ve slept on couches, floors, air mattresses, and this year I finally bought my own bed.

I bought my own bed; my own sheets set and even my own bedframe- which I definitely never had in this lifetime.

I’m packing my things into trash bags once again.

I’ll have to leave my bed.

I do not enjoy moving. For someone who does it so often, you’d think I do it for fun.

When I was little, I kind of liked it. I always enjoyed staying with my parents friends.

Once I got a little older I realized the shame of not having your own house.

Even animals in the wild can provide themselves with shelter, yet I’m homeless?

Poverty is a learned trait.

I realized this year that having a house doesn’t necessarily mean you have a home.

That’s why I’m currently packing my memories into trash bags.

I’ve lived in the apartment that I’m leaving behind twice now.

It’s a shitty apartment in the hood. $575 a month- all utilities paid. The mice live here for free.

It’s not where I want to raise my daughter.

I want to give my daughter the home I dreamed of as a child.

A beautifully structured house with a large backyard.

A place where I don’t have to worry about getting her tested for lead poisoning.

I watched my parents move so many times, I thought the idea of a home was silly.

I’ve struggled my whole life, and I am still struggling.

But one day I plan to buy a home for my daughter, so she can show me what the true meaning of having a home is.