Liminal.

For days now I try to write about moving, about leaving home. Desperate for a metaphor to capture what it feels like—a link between two strange and totally opposed entities of home, and somewhere else. What is known, and what is unknown. I string together bits of the last night before another move out of another house: Boxes stacked and ready, rugs rolled up, drawers piled nakedly outside of dressers, shower curtain folded, still damp with the sweat of a last bath. Reading by headlamp in a room with only a bed and a bag of packed clothes and my husband and dog snoring beside me. Bare floor dusty and a few dead bugs in the windowsill. Quiet hum of air conditioner cooling my skin. Days after, I touch my key ring and mind its lack of heft. What remains. I think about the last time I didn’t have a key to a home, a door to unlock and enter as my own, and I can’t remember. Maybe it’s been since I was a kid living in my first home, which we rarely locked. Did my parents ever use house keys? Were there copies? I never knew. I just knew I belonged there, I knew it was always open. Poems seem far away right now. Out of reach. I am lists, questions, dollar signs, embraces, final this and that. I am keenly aware of what’s not being said in every exchange. What’s felt. But poems, especially the lucky bits of brevity and color seem too hard. I am jumbled and unlined. I am unquiet. I am unstill. Yoga is out of reach, too. I am aches and pains, held tension, headaches. The two things I need the most, I am always moving away from, and toward. The ebb of my practices. When what I need is the coming back. The toward. This morning I think about being uprooted. How I have a choice. The luxury of adventure and risk, calculated. How I get to enjoy and explore change, and truth be told, how I can always come home. Or something like home. This morning the dogs wake me up too early and it is already too bright and I sit in an attic room at my mother’s house surrounded by things that don’t belong to me in a place where I don’t quite belong, either. But I have a choice. What does it feel like to have your home destroyed, maybe even while you’re still in it? No more things, no more home. What does it feel like to flee, to forget how you feel, to forget home? To know you can’t go back, there is nothing to go back to. A forced reckoning with change and uncertainty and unknown. How many people this is happening to right now. How many people are trying to get home, and can’t. I have no idea how to even craft sentences around this. But I know that no one forgets home. Key or no key, it’s indelible.