House To House To Home

To the sibling whose weekends began with a tote bag,

It was made of canvas. With two navy-black and off-white straps. A front pocket that was never used. That tote bag endured “juice” stains, poorly folded clothing, the indecisiveness of girlhood, and more. It sat through all the arguments and jokes and quick naps that could be had in a 10 minute car ride. One by one, the siblings would spend Friday night loading up the bag and then piling into the Toyota minivan. Straight down 32nd Avenue, left turn onto 140-something Street (depending on the day), two right turns, and finally, the destination—an apartment where Mom, and not Dad, lived.

It was a faithful bag—dutifully toting the things of three. Jeffrey, Esther, Joshua. Three children, eventually adults, who honored an arrangement that they never had a say in. An arrangement arranged by adults whose childish ways resulted in a back-and-forth between houses every weekend.

Could a home ever be built from houses so transient? Over the years, the possibility of home would be tantalizingly offered, sometimes within reach, but often not quite. One of the three may have finally found his home—the people and place he can return to time and time again. Another is redefining the purpose of home—diligently designing a structure that exists to serve him. The idealistic third is stuck in the past—hoping to create a semblance of home from all the “what-ifs” and “what could have been.”

Sincerely, Esther