already gone.

I’m packing for my twenty-eighth move in thirty-one years, and as you can probably imagine, that’s stirring up all kinda associations. Sugarland is playing “Already Gone,” which sums up how I feel as I tape these boxes. Have you ever had that feeling where you’re getting ready to leave a situation, place or person and you realize that you already left a long time ago? That’s how I’m feeling now.

When my great-grandma died at the ripe old age of eighty-nine, I cried, not for her passing, but for the grandma of my childhood ten years before. I cried for a woman still engaged enough with the world to make jokes with her granddaughter and drive to Golden Gardens to sit and watch the waves lap against the beach. By the time she died, my great-grandma had let her brain meld with the television and a glass of spiked OJ by her chair. Her final years hadn’t involved a whole lot of living. But there was a woman of verve and sarcasm in my memory, who now could never be brought back even for a minute. The grandmother who my mom had dearly loved for her generosity and Swedish pancakes, fifty years before.

The world lost an interesting woman when my great-grandma died, but when she died, she was already gone. Does that make sense? That’s a dramatic example of how I feel now. I realized months ago that I wasn’t participating in the area where I live (a suburban city north of Seattle) and have just been coasting in and out of this parking space ever since, trying to figure out where to go next. I’ve continued to live here, but I’m already gone.

Even if I loved this place, I’ve moved so many times, there is no shock for me in the act of taking carefully hung prints down from the walls, or packing up my cookbooks. It’s not difficult to prioritize what to pack now versus what to keep out till the last minute. Taping up a box and briefly inventorying what’s inside it, with a Sharpie of course, hardly even takes conscious thought anymore.

Even the known risk that I may not pack something well enough to survive a short journey is something I simply accept. For instance, I have a ceramic hand from my great-grandma. She always kept it on her dresser, draped with bracelets and rings. When I was asked what I might want of Grandma’s to remember her by, I instantly asked for the hand. I always thought it was one of the prettiest things in her house, a leftover from a postwar married life, a bit of Grandma’s femininity still left.

The hand has had its finger broken twice now as its journey across Washington state, and then across the country and back. But I still use it to hold bracelets, and dammit I will till every finger on it can’t be glued on straight.

Tonight I also packed a newer, orange translucent plastic hand from the seventies, that I bought at fourteen in Anchorage. I packed a pair of old dictionaries that I found at a garage sale this summer with my mom. They had neatly replaced the identical pair that was lost in the mail when I shipped stuff across the country to live as a nanny in New Jersey seven years ago. I packed a specific brand of vanilla-lavender candle that I learned can make any place smell not only homey, but sexy, when I bought one in Buffalo and brought it with me to Austin, Texas.

Wrapping up these items in paper is like fondling a layered timeline, each step leading to another step, but sometimes skipping one. A friend in England led me to Austin, but first I had to live in Buffalo. I have been “already gone” many times before, and just as often, I’ve been totally shocked to have to move. Along the way I’ve gathered this odd assortment of books, knick-knacks and trinkets that remind me of who I love. . . and how little it takes to make a home.

Tonight, my sixteen year old cat is asleep on one of the boxes, and the rabbit has settled down on his blanket after hopping around sniffing them while I packed. She likes things tidy, as all cats do, while he loves chewable chaos. These two critters are also part of my story as a nomad, and as someone who has learned to make a home for herself. When I moved into this apartment a year and a half ago, I was heartbroken and staggering out of an amazing but exhausting five years that had always seen me living with roommates or family. I had lived with strangers friendly and unfriendly, men and women, my mom and brother, families I nannied for, all with relative aplomb. The idea of living alone with my romantic grief, however, terrified me.

I had the bunny when I moved in, and the cat joined us as a more vocal companion a few months later.

The rituals that you develop to live alone happily may be the most important you ever have the privilege to experience. I will never put down the year and a half that I spent here, even if by now, I am more than ready to leave this neighborhood and apartment complex. We all want to know love and companionship, but if I had known last winter how I would feel today about my life as a bachelorette, I would have signed the lease with a much lighter heart than I did.

It’s important to know the luxury of leaving your shoes scattered around the front door without anyone to get frustrated with you for it.

It’s important to know the joy of cooking dinner when you get home from work: turning on the stove, chopping onion, browning mushrooms, pouring a glass of wine as the water comes to a boil. Just you and the heat from the stove and something on the radio: calm.

It’s important to know your apartment or house has become an extension of yourself through the funky artwork you’ve hung on the walls. . . artwork that you like.

My great-grandma was the only other female in my family who lived alone for more than a year. She lost her husband long, long ago and lived my entire lifetime in a brick house by herself with her cats in Ballard. I have no idea whether she missed him or what she felt about the boyfriend she had later in life. I just know that house was more her, with her windowsill full of cat figurines and a hutch full of tacky collectible plates, than many houses occupied by couples. I’m not trying to make a couples vs singles argument, I just wish that I had the chance to ask her what she considered the pros and cons of living alone. I wish I had even remembered that she had lived alone, when I signed this lease. At the time, I felt like an unhappy pioneer with a desolate heart and few examples of other women, in my family or out of it, who would have to decide whether or not she felt safe enough to leave the windows open on a hot summer night when she went to bed.

I had a lover this summer who waved his hand when I asked if he had locked the door when he came in—or even closed it, we were inclined to get distracted—”Let them come in,” he said, flopping into bed, “I’ll beat the crap out of them. . . or kill them.”

I laid down next to him thinking, Geez, you could, too. That would be nice to have around. Just a few months before, I had had to intentionally choose to ignore the presence of the two sex offenders who had moved in earlier that year (they each left after a few weeks). I chose not to buy the mace spray or get home early, because I hadn’t wanted fear to cripple my enjoyment of life. Still, it had been hard to do, and having a big husky boy around the house was pretty damn comforting.

As an adult considering this ten years after her death, I have no idea if my grandma would have considered herself happily single, or if she simply accepted widowhood. And I don’t know if I’d point to the year and a half I’ve lived here as an example of swinging singlehood. But I think it’s groovy that a woman born in 1910 is my best familial role model for living alone as a woman, and funny that it only just now occurred to me. Are you less a feminist for accepting your fate instead of consciously choosing it? Don’t think so.

My grandma liked to leave a bowl of marshmallows on the table to grow stale because she preferred them that way, and I get that pleasure—doing whatever silly thing you want without getting harassed for it (except from company).

When it comes to singles and couples, intentional or no, I don’t think there’s a better or a worse way to live. I do think it’s good to know you can do solo. It’s good to be able to housekeep when you get out of the shower naked at eleven o’clock at night, and it’s good to put whatever the hell music you want on a Sunday afternoon.

These things are good because they remind us that whatever else may be happening in our lives, we can still bring ourselves joy with the simplest act of cracking an egg into a frying pan or putting on a Sugarland CD. Male or female, married or divorced, red roses or dandelions, we all need to know that life fucking goes on. Sometimes the only way to do that, as I’ve learned since moving into this apartment last spring, is to spread your shoes out around the front door and wait for someone to complain.

When they don’t, you sigh with satisfaction and pet the cat.

I’m already gone, but I am not writing off this year and a half. It’s been quiet, compared to the years before it. But it has filled up holes in my heart. Considering all this, I think the best housewarming party I could have at my next place is a Swedish pancake breakfast. Let me know if you want to come, and I’ll clear a path through the shoes.

3 Responses

  1. lynnette davis

    I either need to back off the new hormones, or not read your blogs. I forgot that I used to always grab a kleenex before I read them! lOVELY, honey, keep ’em coming.

    Like

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