On the day I found out my dad had a year to live, I was standing at work, typing away stupidly about something I can’t remember now. And in an instant, I was catapulted into a terrible grief I knew nothing about. Like a dark room I’d never entered, feeling my way around. Gemma called my boss, my colleagues, and my best friends. Ordering one to give me time off, to get coffee, and to buy moving boxes. In the apartment, I couldn’t even remember my own name. Gemma found my passport, called my sister and arranged a pick up, and booked my flight for the next morning. Early but not too early, because she said I needed sleep. How do I even begin to pack right now? Gemma told everyone what to do. She put on my favourite songs, Taylor Swift, whom she didn’t particularly care for, and made the executive decision to toss my near-empty shampoo bottles. We walked through a handful of outfits I’d need - certainly comfy ones - as Gemma proposed. And when I’d come back to collect my t...
When I was little, my I would’ve told you my safe place was that spot behind the couch where I could build a world with all my Barbies. Or I might have said curled up on that same couch with my dad. Those places never lasted. I had to clean up, dad had projects to work on, nothing that felt comfortable could stay forever. We got a new house later in life. I wasn’t allowed to paint the walls. I couldn’t set plants on those shelves. Couldn’t light candles, you know, living in the basement things. I didn’t pick this mattress but it’s nice and it’s mine for now. Then I moved into a dorm at university. I had 3 roommates (I miss you, if you’re reading this). And I mean yeah, we spilled cider into the carpet and left hair dye in the shower but. It wasn’t ours. It definitely wasn’t mine. I moved twice a year for the next 4 years. And then hopped to a few different homes after that. Living in a suitcase. Went back home for a while, moved my bed around, which was nice. I sticky-tacked some pictu...