A couple of nights ago, I wrote something for the first time in a long time. Two poems, to be exact. They’re rough, but they’re there. Bound tightly in my journal, the ink permanently stained on the page.
Permanence. I wrote on that for one of the pieces: “Permanent Address.” Rather, I wrote on my lack of permanence. On the fact that I have no clue what to say when someone asks me “What’s your permanent address?” I want to tell them, “I don’t have one.” Because, I don’t. I don’t have a childhood home. I don’t really have that one place I could return to. There are no walls with old pencil etchings marking my growth throughout the years. The place that I had, the place I thought would be that home, belongs to someone else now. We moved out years ago. I hope they’ve kept the magnolia tree–the tree that was planted the year my youngest sister was born.
I’ve left behind so many traces, so many echoes of myself in nine different places. The halls might still resound with the sound of my footsteps if you listen quietly. But, I can’t go back. Those aren’t my places.
It’s weird. To still feel bound to a state, but without a place to teether to. Everything always feels transitory. I’ve gotten awfully good at packing my life into boxes. I don’t know when everything will feel less transitory, but I can’t wait to get there.
I suppose some of this derives from my this month. From the next. From the fact that soon, I’m going to have to face the fact that it’s been a year since I lost someone. Places aren’t permanent. People aren’t permanent.
I wouldn’t say writing about it helped. But it gave me something, the smallest set of ink stains, to keep. Something that’s mine. Something that explains, to the best of its ability, how I’m feeling–even if I don’t quite understand anything. Everything.
I guess I don’t know what to hold onto right now. I’m looking for it, though. I’m trying.