We have always lived in homes that weren’t quite ours. My brother and I stand between walls built on instability, irritability, and ignorance. We occupy homes owned by men who date our mother, men who assume we have ‘daddy issues’ and try to take over the fatherly role. I defy this assumption, branded disrespectful, bratty, rude, and intolerable because I turn to my strong father for guidance and ignore the shrieks of men with no significance to me.

Our mother’s unhappiness and unsure feelings made us move every few years, making it even harder to find a home in these houses. Our unsure feelings are never noted, though. As long as we have a roof over our heads, it doesn’t matter, they say. Cole looks to me for guidance and I try my hardest to play the role of strong sister. ‘We’ll make it out of this,’ I always promise.

Cole and I found our solace, our own little island getaway, in the home of our grandparents. Walking in, the house always greeted us with chiming voices and sweet, drifting smells. It’s heart was found in the living room, the coziness and homey feeling wrapped itself around you, blanketing you in comfort. The fire place radiated a heat that warmed every physical aspect of your being, while friendly voices and kind conversation warmed you emotionally. This house, this getaway island, renewed he feeling of safety inside of us and reminded us of what a real home has the potential to feel like.

We’ve lived in a house now for quite sometime, but I still anticipate the abrupt get up and go. Every day, since the 8th grade, my thoughts have been a constant mantra of ‘just a few more years.’ Years have turned to months now and I’m waiting by the open window watching the days creep by. I’m waiting for the exact moment I can finally be the bird that flies away. The blue jay that flies far from the robin’s nest.

-Passages from a young M