Exactly three years ago I was moving into this new house to start a new life. Pregnant, unpacking bags and trying desperately not to plan too much ahead, I took every breath looking around and smiling because of this new place. Today we looked back at those times and instead of unpacking we packed and threw away a lot of bad memories. But, that’s not today’s story, today I’m going to tell you how I feel about moving from house to house, from a town to another, about changing countries.
As a teenager I moved a lot. Before that I grew up in a house that I adored. I loved it so much that when it was time for us to move away I sat down on the floor in the middle of the living room and threatened everyone to never leave. The scene was unbearable to both my mom and the new owners of the house, but I was decided to never get up and just live there on the floor until that house was to be mine again. When I finally stood up and gave in, I made a promise to myself that I will never be around for any moves ever again. Thus over the years whenever we had to change houses I used to disappear that day and go to the new house when everything was in place and all that was left to do was for me to unpack my room. I remember all the nights, spent on the floor in the middle of my always “new” room, unpacking each thing, placing them in drawers and trying to ignore my feelings. After a while my things represented my home, wherever I went, in whatever new place or town.
When D came into my life we had to move a lot and change at least three different cities in only 4 years. He soon learnt the rule. He used to go and prepare the new house, pack everything except my things almost all by himself and then move them. I used to show up the next day in a brand new space, already organized and ready to host me for a while. Coming to Mars was a little different in a more than painfull way. Leaving behind my house, my things and packing everything by myself, choosing which things I absolutely needed, was like going back to that day, sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, never wanting to leave.
I guess by now you realized I hate moving and I hate changing my “den” sort of speak. The irony of this is that I love adventure, that despite my nature I seek to move on and leave behind more than enough, that I am willing to travel anywhere and everywhere. But, I will always want to come back home and I will always need a den, a safe place where I can retreat and lick my wounds. And home isn’t a place anymore, home is where I can be who I am, home is where they are.
