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Moving

The first time Pam moved, she was eight years old. Always quiet around strangers, she was terrified at the thought of starting a new school. More than that, though, she was unbearably sad about leaving- leaving her house, and her room with light green walls and a tree outside the window, and her routine and her school and her friends.

The new neighborhood was nicer; the new school was better. It took Pam days before she talked to anyone besides the teacher, and weeks before she had anyone she could even half-heartedly call a friend. Her new room was pink. I want to go home, she thought to herself. Change was bad. Change hurt.

The only thing that made it better was drawing. She drew their old house. She drew her room, with light green walls and a tree outside the window. She drew her friends- Stacy and Patty and Susanne. Her mother was taken aback; the drawings looked just like them, with correctly-shaped noses and exactly the right shades of hair and eyes. She put the sketches in a box and labeled it “Pams Memory Box” in green marker. Two years later she came across it while cleaning her room and added the apostrophe to “Pam’s” in blue pen.

The second time Pam moved, she was 18. She sobbed quietly to herself for an hour when her parents left her on campus, only stopping when her new roommate walked in and introduced herself. Stephanie was nothing like Pam; she was loud and messy and smoked, and had boys over all the time, sometimes overnight in the bunk below Pam. Classes were harder than she’d expected, and she missed Roy terribly. I want to go home, she thought to herself. She thought it every day.

The only thing that made it better was taking art classes. She learned new techniques and new styles. She painted and sculpted and drew in chalk and charcoal. She sent Roy some of the pieces she’d done; he said they could use them to decorate their apartment if she would come back and move in with him. She left Stephanie a note when she went home for Christmas saying goodbye.

The third time Pam moved, she had just turned 19. Instead of going back to the dorm after Christmas break, she moved into Roy’s apartment. His brother had moved out to get a place with his own girlfriend, and Roy couldn’t afford it by himself. Pam got a job in an art supply store, but it closed down and she started doing admin work here and there. She missed studying art full-time. She missed having her own bed, especially when Roy snored. She missed her mom. I want to go home, she sometimes thought to herself, but only when she didn’t think anyone was listening.

Pam finally settled in to her new place. The only thing that would have made it better would have been if Roy had seemed serious about getting married, but he thought they were too young. It worried her; if he wasn’t committed, why was she here? Years went by, though, and he was obviously in it for the long haul. They even got engaged, eventually. She had a chance to pursue her art again, but he shot down the idea. Later she would wonder if that was what really started all the problems- she hadn’t had her art to make everything better.

The fourth time Pam moved, she was 26. It was hard. It was sad. It was necessary. I want to go home, she thought to herself, but only in the middle of the night when she felt weakest. 

The only things that made it better were time and motion. Each day was easier as long as she could see progress. The first thing she did was to sign up for art classes. The smell of paint and canvas and creativity was a balm to her soul the minute she showed up for the first session. She bought new clothes. She went on a date. She got up every morning and thought of ways to move one step closer to the person she wanted to be (and to the person she wanted).

The fifth time Pam moved, she was 27. She sighed and whined about having just done all of this sorting out of the things she wouldn’t need and packing and hauling of the things she would, but the complaints were half-hearted. This move was a million times easier than the last one; after all, choosing what to throw away was much easier than choosing what to leave behind. And when he smilingly pointed out that this was his third move in the same timeframe, she stopped grumbling immediately because she knew that was her fault. Amazingly, though, he never seemed to blame her. He simply seemed overjoyed that they were finally moving in the same direction.

I’m going home, she thought to herself as Jim carried her over the threshold.