Uncharted

A layer of dust washes over me. Sputtering, I tape the final corner of the last box I will ship from New York to my new life in the southwest. I stand up to stretch out my lower back, and the smell of my body odor wilts the stale air around me. I take a moment to look around at the freshly bare walls; my whole life is now packed within three suitcases and a small crowd of cardboard boxes. Funny how just a few hours of tearing down decorations and folding clothes has turned my home into a room I once knew. The only thing left to remind me of my time spent here is a small teal mirror, which poignantly reflects my weary appearance back to me. But, even as I stand heavy with the duality of nostalgia and exhaustion, I can’t help but smile at the memory of one of my first days in the city- the last time these walls were bare.

~

I am gripping the steering wheel of a U-Haul. My knuckles are both the center of my universe and the singular force keeping my nerves in order. Yesterday, I was living in Dallas, Texas. 24-hours later, I am now fully arrived in New York City, having dragged with me two just-underweight suitcases, my chronic backne and a dream. I am terrified.

Too stingy for movers, my future roommate and I have committed ourselves to renting a U-Haul truck in order to move her furniture and my suitcases out of her three-story walk-up and into our recently acquired, puke-yellow apartment a few neighborhoods north. As the roommate with the only valid driver’s license, I have been nominated to pick-up and drive the U-Haul truck back to the apartment. The truck is too big for me; I feel young and engulfed by the pressure to safely drive this van through narrow New York streets. So, I sit gripping the steering wheel, reminding myself that I do in fact have control over this small facet of my life.

Stuck in traffic, I slowly ease the van into the intersection under the promise of the green light. As I move forward, the light drizzle that had been muddling the sky all morning transforms into a thick downpour. My view of oncoming traffic blurs, and new darkness hunts my visibility. I fiddle around for the windshield wipers. After a few worried seconds of searching, I find them and turn them on at their highest setting. I look back toward the road and realize the car in front me moved forward while I was distracted; I follow the car but realize too late that there is not enough space for my truck to clear the intersection. The light turns yellow then red, and I am officially stuck. I feel my heartbeat quicken. A bus coming from the other direction is trying to turn left. After a series of horns starts to blare, I realize that my presence in the intersection has made it impossible for the bus to turn and leave the middle of the intersection. I look in my dreary rearview mirror and see no space for me to fully back up the truck. The cars in front of me remain in a standstill. The bus continues to blare its horn in my direction, inching closer and closer to the side of the U-Haul.

It is then that I start to scream. My snarky inner voice condescendingly reminds me that this is an utterly useless response of panic, but it’s too late. I’ve lost it. My hands have left the steering wheel and now clutch the edge of my seat. I let out a visceral string of uncomfortable and nonsensical curse words, which goes something like: MY FUCKIN’ SHITTER ASS DICK FUUUCK. I am moist everywhere.

Unsurprisingly, my episode is solving nothing. The horns still blare, the rain still comes down in sheets, and the bus is still stuck in the intersection thanks to my pitiful driving skills. Eyebrows furrowed, I become keenly aware that no one is coming to help me. I am the only one who can figure this shit out. So, with all the resolve I can muster, I whip my hands back to the steering wheel. Three deep breaths. I squint and blissfully discover free space in between the line of cars in front of me and the median to my left. Grunting, I urge the wheel to the left while slowly easing up on the brakes to move the truck slightly forward. Although I am crooked, moving into the free space allows me to clear a good portion of the length of the truck from the intersection, providing just enough space for the bus to make its turn.

I pump my fist in victory, and my shoulders quickly dissolve into a breakout dance sesh. Just then, I look to my left to see someone flip me off and mouth ‘fuck you’.

I guess you can’t win ‘em all.

~

I grab a beer from the fridge and walk back toward my room to lean in the doorframe. For an empty room, it feels loud in here. I take a long sip. Maybe it feels loud because I know the emptiness comes with the reality that I am starting over again. Another new city, more first days of knowing no one, another set of bare walls. To build a new home is never a light thing, I’ve learned.

I slide down the doorframe and end up sitting with my knees cradled in my chest. My eyes well a little, but it’s a mixed feeling. I am ready to leave but not fully ready to start over. I put the beer down and begin tracing the scars on my knees. I eventually pause to look closely at my palm. A few weeks ago, I went to a witch festival in Greenwich Village with my friend (another story for another time). We decided to get our palms read, secretly pining for a bit of clarity. After I stuffed ten dollars in a jar, the palm reader took my hand and started analyzing me. Despite her mistake in identifying me as a, quote, “Flirty McFlirtison”, she was doing well, and I was listening intently. As she traced my lifeline, she stopped to look me right in the eyes. I could sense she was about to give me advice. I leaned in, and she said, “You worry a lot, but I gotta tell you, 60% sure is as sure as you’ll ever be about anything. Let go and roll with it, honey.”

60% sure. I knew she was right. At the time, I wanted to ask her if the 60% figure applied to other things in my life- was I only ever going to feel 60% settled? 60% healed? 60% forgiven? 60% adored? 60% happy?

Of course I knew those questions were impossible to answer. I go back to tracing my scars. At least I can see this city has left some sort of mark on me. I hum, lost in thought. Marred by uncertainty and the perpetual tendency to rethink things, I’ve never been any good at imagining my future. I always have a thousand ideas at once, and nothing is ever very clear. Recently, however, I’ve been starting to picture myself at age 70. She always has wrinkled hands coveted around the indelible heat of her tea mug. She still wears glasses and bites her nails. She still gets sunburnt sitting on the sunny side of the car with the windows rolled up.

This time, I picture her, and she sits down next to me. I turn my face toward her, resting my cheek against the cool wall. I can’t quite muster the words out loud, but I know I am silently asking for her wisdom, for her guidance, for her assurance that all of this will work out okay. Instead of answering my silent pleas, she looks back at me. It is not the steady, all-knowing look I expected; instead, I feel her eyes searching mine too. While I am at first unnerved, I eventually realize that in searching my eyes, she is trying to remember me- just as I am in this moment. Vulnerable, uncharted, hesitant. Her remembering eyes soften me, as being intentionally thought of always does.

I hold her hand in mine; I am trying to remember her, too. While various emotional, financial, temporal, familial and professional factors have driven and continue to drive the need for change in my life, I’ve discovered there’s something more that actually moves me forward. There is something deeper that carries me through the leaving, the starting over and the staying amidst the upheaval. Somewhere, I know that what allows me to wake up, zip my skirt and pull my hair back at the nape of my neck as I leave the building in the morning is this power of remembering.

I can remember that I once drove a U-Haul in city streets. I remember times spent sitting by rivers in the rain and forgetting I was cold. I remember that I may still get sad about something that happened many months and some days ago. But, I also will not forget that high sun over blue skies plants roses on my cheeks. I can remember that tomorrow there will be a concert that I like and that later this month is my sister’s birthday and that I really love the taste of sea-salted caramel and that this morning, toothpaste was on sale at the pharmacy. I will continue to remember that my best friend feels happiest hiking alongside the assurance of dawn.

And, on the most unfavorable days, I promise to recall the gravitational weight of my smile, so strong it pulls two crescent moons as dimples in its wake.

I open my eyes, and 70-year-old me is gone. I sit alone again in my empty room. With nothing else left to do, I slowly stand and walk over to one of my packed boxes. I reach down and shift its weight into my arms. Three deep breaths. I turn toward my doorframe, preparing myself to carry the box down the stairs of my apartment building. With slightly shaking arms, I take a step. I know there is nowhere to go but forward. As I walk, I remember that it’ll be worth it.