My family rides changing winds. We fold our lives into cardboard boxes, kiss the doorframe goodbye and leave without a second glance. Our house changes, but our sense of home travels with us. And it’s just as strong, although having been scrunched into purses and wallets and nestled next to balls of lint, laced with creases. Our coat pockets overflow with it, and we bed with it; I know no matter where I bunk tonight, I will have my home. All I need is the room where one of three people are. My mother, my father, or my brother. The houses have cradled, cleaned, cloaked and fed us four, but there would be no querencia for those walls of brick and wood if they had separated us.
Can I write about the common threads within all my houses, that are ultimately tied to my family? Or does it have to be only one place that stands on its own?