Finding Home

There was a time in my life when I could pick up and move from one place to another, often sight-unseen, without so much as batting a single carefully mascara’d eyelash. As evidenced by my very recent relocation from Massachusetts back to my Southern homeland, that is no longer the case. Perhaps it has to do with having a child—giving a kid roots and then pulling them asunder definitely gives one pause. Perhaps it’s my age. I’m halfway between diapers and, well, more diapers, and it just makes me cranky to think of picking up and starting over again. Really, though, I think I had just come to think of the place in which I lived as “home” and that is a very hard place to leave, indeed.

Siona Benjamin. Finding Home#89 Vashti (Fereshteh), 2006–2006.

This move had been planned for months. My partner, Li, lives about 30 miles from my parents and I haven’t lived near my family since I left our suburban ranch house to attend art school in Philadelphia at the tender age of 18. When it became obvious that we were single-handedly supporting the airline industry with our monthly visits, we began to talk in earnest about a major change.

There were many practical reasons for me to come down South—having my son grow up close to my family was a big one. I didn’t live close to my extended family and have only distant memories of Christmas eves with fruitcakes (the actual cakes, not the relatives themselves) and nut balls (you can make of that what you will). The cost of living was a huge impetus. I could no longer afford the rent and utilities on an apartment that was meant for my ex and me, and the work I was doing was shrinking like Alice on a binge. The icing on the cake was finding an actual house to rent (an honest-to-goodness house replete with a yard and my very own driveway!) for $500 less than what I was paying for one-half of a two-family on the busiest street in town. A date was set and now all I had to do was commence the packing.

This is where I got stuck. As soon as I started to think about the actual ramifications of boxing my belongings I would break down into hysterical tears. I have been accused of romanticizing certain aspects of my time there and perhaps there is some of that, but I felt myself going through the five stages of grief, nonetheless. 1) Denial and isolation: this consisted of sending my child off to school, staring morosely at the piles of work to be done, and then retreating to my bedroom to pull the covers over my head and bemoan my very existence. 2) Anger: much of this was directed at Li, and she bore it well. I didn’t want to move and I figured that if we hadn’t gotten back together (albeit after a 23+ year hiatus) I would be staying right where I was. Let’s pretend I could afford my apartment and wasn’t going to have to move anyway, regardless. 3) Bargaining: I wasn’t making any deals with the devil but I certainly was praying to find a way to stay put so I wouldn’t have to endure the eventuality of packing and saying my goodbyes. 4) Depression: see Stage 1. 5) Acceptance: with two weeks to go until our move date, I ordered boxes. They were late in arriving so I had a 3-day reprieve. When they did arrive I spent an inordinate amount of time finding other things to do (catching up on Netflix was high on my priority list). I was so effective at acceptance that by the time Li arrived with barely a week to go, she had pretty much the entire place to pack up (in record heat and humidity) while she banished me to the only air-conditioned bedroom to work. Yes, princess behavior should be listed as Stage 6.

I won’t go into all of the details of the actual drive. I’ll gloss over the lack of help in loading the truck, the cat’s refusal to take his herbal calming meds, the late-night separation from the moving truck our dear friend was driving as we all tried to locate the Econolodge near Hazelton, PA, and the general malaise and overall crankiness that goes along with a 15-hour drive in the dog days of summer. What I will say is this: when we arrived we were greeted by strangers who came out in droves to help unload the truck in record time. My parents arrived bearing trays of lasagna, salad, and sweet iced tea for all. But before one item was loaded in, my son led me into the house, my eyes shut tight. Holding fast to my hand he led me from room to room and excitedly pointed out all the wonderful features of the new domicile that he had been privileged to visit the week before.

After the tour, I asked him to send Li in and I kissed her full on the mouth, tears of gratitude and happiness streaming down my face. From my new bay window I watched these kind folk begin the arduous process of pulling my belongings out of the truck and I smiled—this, then, is home.