Somewhere else
Moving.
Or, moving in.
I called my mom
from the new place.
“Celebrate that," she tells me.
“The last box—
it makes it fun."
She's been splitting
from Dad
for 30 years,
and so I listen.
When I was 19
she had the youngest
(who is 6 now)
and that day
was cold.
So cold
that while I was in class
my tire deflated,
and two strangers helped me
put on the spare.
It's all scratched down
in a notebook I almost threw away.
That notebook sat in closets
while life kept moving.
I moved out
after the youngest was born.
Then I lived alone,
and went to class,
to get a job.
All to keep moving—
out and in and on and up,
to come back for Thanksgiving,
and maybe Christmas,
so I can have
all that I have
and remember
all that I wanted
in all of these places
strangers will drive past
on their way to somewhere else.