home.

I’m not sure why its recently become important for me to find everywhere I’ve lived. 

I’m drawn to the idea of each house. Maybe remembering anything from a place that could hold another nugget of my life.. I feel guilty when I don’t remember. 

I once rode by a house that pulled my attention out the passenger window. I immediately felt I had stood in that foyer.. The house in the back yard caught my eye at the last second. I said out loud that I thought I’d lived there. It was a moment where every neuron in my brain was trying to connect the dots of my life.. I know I lived there. My aunt Angie held a heavy presence there but the backstory eludes me. I started a list of the places I’ve lived. I can remember over 40 places. I’ve packed my life up more than most people have packed to travel in theirs.

I’ve always said that I’m grateful for the struggles of child hood but I believe those hardships shaped me in a greater capacity than I know. Digging up bones has never been my solution but I believe this time, I seek these places for joy instead of sorrow. Every house we lived in holds memories of neglect and stories of other people’s truths.

I just want my life, my story. I know that my story is far greater than I could write. How finding these places fits into this mentality is unknown. I’ve also thought of the opposing. None of that matters but i want to know why I’m joyful versus toting the burdens of my life. 

Intentional forgetting replaced by intentional remembering.