I have a new address, new ID (with old address and sans glasses for some bureaucratic reason), and am living in my first apartment with a view; a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Leaving good friends, comforts, routines, and hard-fought marked territories has finally cracked the false bravado veneer that I had so carefully applied to propel myself into this new skin. It’s all part of the shedding process that has become my nomadic routine. There is familiarity in this angst.
Unwrapping newspaper from the coffee cups and strategically placing them on the new shelves that I should have wiped down but assumed were clean, reminded me of all the times we moved growing up. Making the makeshift bed crystalized how hard that must have been for my mother, four kids in tow. Annually, we’d pack up the horse trailer and drive from one nowhere to another equally desolate location.
With this innate and intimate knowledge, I unpack and find places to display the skills I’ve learned from the countless moves of my past. Like being double spooned, it’s going to feel familiar and comforting.