(The Daily Rumpus) One Way to Organize a Life

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I think sometimes of the different spaces I've lived in. All the different windows, bedrooms, staircases, porches, yards, and fences. All the front-do

   

I think sometimes of the different spaces I've lived in. All the different windows, bedrooms, staircases, porches, yards, and fences. All the front-door and back-door keys.

The year by the beach in the small studio apartment. It wasn't a good year, but I could walk a block and sit on a bench on the boardwalk and watch the waves break, climb down and run my fingers through sand. That winter's first snowfall, I watched as flakes landed and disappeared into sand.

The rosemary plant we bought for the tiny Oakland balcony, because "rosemary can't be killed." That plant died, as all plants I've ever tried to grow have died. But while that plant died, I became alive again. Blue sky and bougainvillea. I wrote every day.

The first bedroom, in my childhood house. I would climb out the window and sit on a balcony with no railing. I watched the cars drive by. I did this at twelve, at sixteen, at eighteen. I was always looking for the same story.

I've lived in three houses, three dormitories, and eight apartments. Three states, thirteen cities. Sometimes, when scrawling my return address on an envelope, I write the wrong zip code. You don't live there anymore, I remind myself.

It's one way to organize a life. A timeline: where I have been and who I was when I was there.

Where have you lived? What does "home" mean for you? Where have you been, and who were you when you were there?

Love,
Marisa

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