I’m trying something a little new with this post, which stemmed from some anxiety as I prepare to move from home to Lafayette. This post is kind of poem-like, and is intended to be read aloud and accompanied by a song. Please listen to the song either before you read, or as you read.
I’ve spent my whole life living here.
10881 N CR 925 W
Gaston, IN 47342
This spot. In the country. Near the SR-28 exit off I-69. But still on a chip-and-fill road with no lines.
I remember when I was a child, and my older sisters graduated, leaving for their futures. I remember thinking about how far away that point in my life seemed, when the stretch of time from then to now was so long it was silly to plan for.
Here I am.
Twenty-two, and trying to find a way to pack my past into boxes. (Jesus, that sounds cliché, doesn’t it?)
But the truth is, it hurts to realize I’m leaving this space—and part of my life—behind.
Maybe it’s just that I’m trying to write too close to this event, and I haven’t allowed for time to meditate over it, to emotionally distance myself from it, but as I try to write this, I can’t find the right words.
I wish I could tell you my past in this farmhouse.
I wish I could ground you, dear reader, with vivid descriptions of a childhood in this bedroom, still covered in yellow, marching-ducks wallpaper.
I wish I could create in your minds an all-encompassing series of images, painting my experience and memories with a careful precision that leaves you with a sense of knowing.
I wish I could tell you what it was like to grow up in the mud and dirt and animal shit of farm life, but still feel fulfilled at the end of the day by the strength, support, and warmth of my family.
And I wish I could compare all of that to whatever future is coming.
But the truth is, this is something entirely new.
And it’s been a long, long time since I’ve experienced this kind of unknown.
…I’ll keep you updated on how it goes.