Five years, I waited; came home to kitchen ants, unlocked doors, and noise when I sought quiet. Five years, I dreamed of walls within which I could cry, scream, laugh out loud, and be whenever, whatever I wanted. Five years, I struggled figuratively and literally to move.
Well, my house will be sold shortly. The five of us received news a few months ago and have been scrambling for new homes ever since. Apparently, I needed a push out the door. I haven't lived in any one space for more than five months since I was 18 years old. This home that is being sold without my permission feels like my home. They are selling my home without even asking for my opinion.
Yesterday, I stopped one last time to grab the knife rack, deserted cleaning supplies, and necessaries like toilet brushes and mezuzahs. All the plants had been ripped out leaving a barren front; a screaming dirty graveyard. My most sacred of places had been stripped; the move was a reality.
That night, my friend Yohko and I left Chem class to be clandestine figures under dark. We snuck our way back to the old house and dug out the remaining side-yard plants with a dirty shovel, by the light of my ex-neighbor's bright porch light. As Yohko dug, I did mischievous sidewalk jigs every few minutes to trigger the motion sensored light's glow upon our mission.
Late night dog walkers eyed us suspiciously as they wandered by on the street below. Neighbors watched from behind curtained windows. "Are they stealing the plants?" they wondered, but no one asked.
We left with a massive, gorgeous fucshia that I planted as a baby three years ago. Also in our booty was a flowering red currant, a blueberry bush, tomato plants, carrots, and some 50 lbs of compost. To top it all off, we precariously tipped a large shelving unit onto the roof of my car, strapping it down with dollar store bungees.
I led the way, driving down Cesar Chavez Blvd slowly and with prayer. As I stopped at the light outside Tom's Bar, I realized my car was more forest than machine and the added weight had me riding just inches off the ground. From only feet away, not one socialite took a second glance. God bless, Portland.
Now I wake up to chickadees, toddlers screaming with glee in the distance, and dancing trees. Pooch is fixed to the window staring into Kenilworth Park as if hypnotized by the blowing world. As I return home from work each night, I attempt to unite my old and new lives. I drag further items and plants from the trunk of my car, one heavy pot at a time. I try to remember which key gets me in the front door and where to leave my shoes.
My own concrete slab out back is quickly turning into a gardening eden. There are uprooted tomato plants hanging from the chain links; the fucshia sits desperately holding onto its new life from a yellow City of Portland recycling bin. The boxes make their way slowly from inside towers to recycling and I am discovering the quirks, cracks, and joys of living alone.
When in the shower for the first time the other day, I was hit upon the face and shoulders by a gust of cold, clear wind. My new bathroom window allows me to stand dripping with warmth while watching my neighborhood from a safe little nook that no one else would notice. "Oh my god. I have an outdoor shower," I thought. With joyful surprise, I burst into tears remembering the lovely Ugandan bucket showers and I shook with gratitude for my new freedom.
Finally, I have space.
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