Establishing Home

The majority of my first morning at my Blackstone Avenue is spent unpacking. I packed hurriedly in the two day window between my arrival from England and my departure for the windy city. Even though I know full well that Chicago is not the end of the earth, I wanted to make sure I had everything. 

As I unpack, I suddenly panic. After rooting around in the crumb-filled interior of my velvet messager bag, relief. The old cassette tapes are there. I do have them after all. 

I realize I transport home almost mechanically. I live out of bags. It comes first from divorced parents, from shifting back and forth every Wednesday and Saturday of my childhood. It also comes from summers spent abroad, when I squashed my whole world into a tiny suitcase or later, a trusty travel backpack. It comes from living in a different place each year of college. 

My transportable home is comprised of things, beloved material goods that keep me company. Clothes are hung, the bed in made. And soon, my familiar relics and everyday goods spread across this unfamiliar place. I glance at the bed, now covered by my green bedspread; the closet, newly populated by a familiar, well-loved wardrobe. White polka dots on grey, delicate florals, careful knits all arranged just how I like make this strange, shadowy space my own. It is a new kitchen, but the purple stains splashed the white stove are remnants of a dinner all my own-- red cabbage soup, warm and filling, made with the same recipe on this windy Chicago night as in my Lawrence hometown.