Home

"You know, I remember moving, but I don't exactly remember feeling sad about it or anything," I said, staring out the car window. I was with my friend, who was like my sister when we were little, and her mom, driving to dance after school. Seven years had passed since I had first met her, only it felt like so much longer. "I wasn't really that emotional as a little kid."

My friend's mom laughed. "Are you kidding? You used to cry all the time. It was a good thing, but you always made sure to wash your hands because you were afraid of germs."

"That's not what I meant," I told her. "I wasn't even upset about leaving my home. I don't even think I cried then."

She shrugged and kept on driving. I pretty much forgot about the conversation after that.

in 2005, when I was six years old, my family moved from Massachusetts to Oregon. I must have been to Oregon before that, because the pictures proved it, and I remembered my aunt and uncle's house in Portland. To be honest, though, I don't really remember that much about life before Oregon. We go back every year to see family, and I definitely recognize things, and I have specific memories, but it wasn't enough to feel bad about leaving. It had just always been my home, and I was okay with that. I took it for granted, and never knew any abrupt change. For some reason, when a change did come, I just went along with it. My mom might know a different story, but to me, it was just a road trip, only with a big truck and a really tightly packed car.

My dad came upstairs to say goodnight to me one night when I was probably about six, and I asked him, "are we going to move?" It was too dark to see his face, but he replied, "yes, we probably will." And then he went back downstairs and I fell asleep like any normal night. I told this really obnoxious boy from my "walking school bus" that I was moving, and he didn't believe me at first.  It's weird that I don't remember telling my closest friends that I was moving, but I can remember exactly where I was standing when I told that kid, whose name I don't even know anymore.

There were goodbye parties, of course. I remember that because there are pictures in our moving scrapbook, and I remember people saying goodbye to me and getting a book about Oregon. My kindergarten teacher (I was in first grade by then) gave me a teddy bear that I named Patches and carried with me for the entire move. We went to a restaurant called Bertucci's with my relatives to say goodbye, and I remember stopping near that restaurant again as we were leaving to use the bathroom. We sold our grill to these really nice people who asked me about moving. My mom's friend came over and gave my brother and me each small flat "desks" and some other things for the car. We stayed with my cousins in New York state, the last time I went to their house, and played with their basketballs in the basement. I slept in my older cousin's room with her, and she had these nature noises on a CD to help her sleep. I can remember all of those random details, apparently, but I can't remember for the life of me feeling bad about leaving during this.

It's not like I don't have a good memory, because it's actually pretty good. However, I don't organize my memories chronologically, it's more like eras. I don't know what my earliest memory is, but if you ask me about an event, I might recall it quite clearly. There are a lot of things that have stuck in my mind over time, but it's kind of like my life on the east coast was one happy blur. Nothing traumatic happened, and that included moving. Days just happened, one after another, and it went on for almost six years. When I was eight or so, I would tell my friends here that Massachusetts was really still my home, and that I missed it some times. It's true that I feel like I'm going to cry when the plane circles over Boston every year, but I also ache for the sight of the Portland skyscrapers. It was only a few years ago that I realized that I love Oregon. It's my home now, and I feel comfortable here. When I think about college, all I consider is the west coast, and I don't want to think about moving away.

My grandparents' house is my home away from home. For fourteen years, everything has been the same to me there, even the dolls in the toy chest and the random knicknacks in one of the guest room's dresser. I have real memories there, and some of them are only a few weeks old. But when I think of where I used to live, my old neighborhood, all I see is a street view from the height of a toddler, a coffee shop, a church, and the houses of our closest neighbors. It's not really a home to me anymore. And while that's sad, it's also comforting that I've found another place that really is home, that I don't want to leave yet.