I lived 6 different places before the age of 8. Lately, I’ve been thinking about those places, what they were like, what life was like, etc. I try to remember what my room looked like, the names of friends, my teachers. I do remember being home alone a lot. My mom worked. And we had moved far from my dad. My brother who was only 5 years older than me was in charge. He could be mean sometimes. But, he watched out for me. Chad was my daily companion, whether he liked it or not. He didn’t have any alternative. There was no one else.
Things always seemed chaotic. It was a very sad and confusing time for me. I never felt safe. Besides Chad, I felt little security.
Sometimes I think about looking for some of those houses I used to live in. Perhaps it will conjure up forgotten memories of my brother or mother. Family members and others came and went. But us; my mom, my brother, and me were whom I consistently shared home. I don’t know the addresses of these homes. My mom and my brother aren’t alive anymore to tell me. I’m all that is left. It almost feels like that time didn’t happen. I have no one to confirm the stories from that period anymore.
I envision my old schools; what they looked like, what the playgrounds had, who my friends were. This lead me to recall the time after school; what our routine was. I took the bus when I lived in San Juan Capistrano. I went directly to daycare in Irvine. I then realized that if I could find my old schools, I could remember my way home. Why this is so easy to recall, I can’t understand. I can distinctly remember the vines we used to walk past as we made our way up the hill to our street. We would pull pieces of the vine off and use it to write on the cement, the moisture from the plant serving as bold but temporary ink. It would soon dry by the sun and leave no trace of our elementary tagging. I remember how thirsty we used to get. It used was so hot some days.
But when I think back, I can feel the blisters from shoes that no longer fit. My mom would bring black trash bags home filled with clothes belonging to someone I don’t know. My mom would always refer to a co-worker who would bring in these bags for my mom. They must’ve known how much I needed it. We held garage sales every weekend it seemed. I thought my mom liked having garage sales. Turns out, my mom was merely surviving.
My own kids take the bus to get home from school. They don’t arrive home to an empty house. My oldest is past my brother’s age when he was put in charge of me. My boys would never be allowed to walk home alone. I want home to feel, to be, and to evoke emotions of everything home should for them. I want their home to have a mom and a dad. I want them to have what I didn’t.
I don’t even know if my boys would know how to navigate their way home.
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