There has always been one object which I have considered a constant throughout my life. It has been a constant as a part of a reoccurring event that would happen every year or every six months. Just enough time to find your ground and feel steady. The re-occurrence
of this single object always meant change for me and the rest of my family. It would bring forth a broad pallet of emotions. The first would be insecurity, as you, especially as a child, would never know what the next step would be. After insecurity, all the emotions
concerning letting go would come to the surface – letting go of life as you had just gotten used to it; routines, friends, school and basic surroundings. But at the end of the roller-coaster, that it can be to let go of something you have come to hold dear, there is
always a sense of relief. Every time this single object would reappear in the place my family would call home, in search for a better word, we would know that this would not only be the end of one chapter of our life, but also the start of a new one. The object that would always reoccur were moving boxes – brown, dusty and ready to be folded to contain all our belongings.
But why would these boxes reappear in my family’s life? To find the answer to this question, I must explain a few things about my family’s dynamics. I have two siblings; an older brother and a younger sister. This is our story about our mother. We all have the same mother, yet three different fathers. One of whom disappeared from my mother’s life just as she told him she was pregnant, another who turned out to be an alcoholic and the third who, personality wise, was not a good match for my mother. So, for the rest of our lives we would be a wholesome family of four people – getting perfectly by without a constant male patriarchal father figure. My mother did all that she could to let her us have all the opportunities and lifestyles as families with two incomes. For this reason, my mother worked - and she worked some more – always in the search for the perfect life. It was a utopia that she could not even define for herself. Though it was clear for her children that she wanted the standard happy family: Husband, wife, kids, house, dog. It was very stressful for her. She wanted release herself from her usual responsibilities; to take care of her kids, which had held her back from her own recovery from depression.
My younger sister and I found our own place. This time the reappearance of moving boxes was not influenced by uncertainty. This time we skipped all the previous emotions and fast-forwarded to relief. Relief as the pain my mother felt and we felt faded as she had found her place of healing. But home, in search for a better word, would still be in our connection to our mother. Home was no longer found through searching for a perfect and Utopian place, but gained through simply feeling safe and comfortable in our own skin. We didn’t need to find a
better word for home, as we had found the definition we needed in the word family. The moving boxes will still reappear in my life occasionally, and even though my perception of this object has changed throughout my life, I still thrive in the limbo between jumping and landing.