House To House To Home (Retold)

To the navy-black and off-white tote bag,

Mom and Dad struck a deal with each other long before I or any of my brothers were old enough to have a legitimate say in the matter. My younger brother barely potty-trained and I still learning how to write the letter U. But if you ask me, it was the grown-ups who were the ones acting childish. Because the terms of the arrangement they came up with—involving a tote bag and a weekly back-and-forth between houses—were just sheer lunacy.

Before the start of every weekend, Dad would tell us to start packing our things in the tote bag, the navy-black and off-white one, made of a stiff canvas that seemed to stretch and stretch with the forceful shoving and overstuffing of our belongings. Somehow, everything would always fit.

That tote bag endured cranberry juice spills, poorly folded plaid boxers, and more. No one ever bothered to throw it in the washing machine, maybe out of fear that doing so would remove the stains and marks that offered feelings of nostalgia. But then again, preserving the sour smell from the once forgotten fish sandwich with the oily spread that reminded me of melted Vaseline, didn’t seem smart either, especially during the summer days. Though we’re not proud of it, my brothers and I eventually got used to the bag’s odor suggesting years of microbial warfare and basic human carelessness.

For as long as I can remember, Friday nights were spent packing the bag and loading it onto Dad’s copper-ish tan minivan, which would then sputter its way along 32nd Avenue for the next 10 minutes, remind us of its worn-down engine with an annoying rattling sound, turn onto 140-something Street, make two more rights, then finally arrive at the destination—an apartment where Mom, and not Dad, lived.

Sincerely, Esther