Tell us about the home where you lived when you were twelve. Which town, city, or country? Was it a house or an apartment? A boarding school or foster home? An airstream or an RV? Who lived there with you?
When I was twelve I was the same weight I am now and a foot shorter. I drank 6 cokes and ate 2 hot pockets every day followed by a couple handfuls of chips. Everyday I would hike it home from the bus stop. If my mom forgot to leave the door unlocked, I would stand on the steps and ring the doorbell for 45 minutes as my mother vacuumed the top of the stairs, which I knew because I could see her in the arch window on the door. The boys on my street would sit on the side of the road and watch as I stared at the door waiting for my mother to never realize I was outside. I’d resort to walking around to the back porch and stand there pressing myself to the back door until my mother walked by and my blubbery little shadow scared the shit out of her. “JESUS! Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?!”
I DON’T KNOW, MOM. I DIDN’T THINK OF THAT.
Mom, Dad, brother and Lolo. We moved from our house in Ohio into a smaller house on Cape Cod. I started the second grade there when I was 7 and moved out when I was 24. To this day it has never really felt like home. Even now, when I go back to visit, it doesn’t resonate as a nostalgic place where I spent most my life. I love being with my mom and my kitties but the physical house has never and still doesn’t register in my “this is a very significant place for you” section of my brain.
Even if it my house isn’t a grand symbol to me, it still was there to let my fleshy little Weathervane/Delia’s wearing body in.