Re: Located

I have relocated to Lexington, Kentucky. As I sit on the floor of the attic loft where I now live, I’m happy, despite my clothes strung everywhere and I don’t have a desk to write on.

My sister laughs that after almost three years I didn’t go very far. My current living space is only one street over from where we lived together before I skipped town, my mom passed, and she was married.

I’m very satisfied with the space. Windows don triangular shaped ceilings (which sometimes cause me to bump my head) but I don’t care. There are three sections—bedroom, miscellaneous with exposed chimney, and bathroom with shower and Jacuzzi (did not know Jacuzzi was trademarked, but makes sense).

All of this for 3 divided by what I was paying for rent in Washington. I also don’t have to commit to a lease.

I adore this system of trust. When I gave the woman who lives downstairs my first rent check and security deposit, I signed a handwritten note in confirmation. Freedom.

It’s been hard to write while I’ve been moving around. After the Women’s March on Washington I drove home, spent two weeks here, then went back to U-HAUL my furniture with Lauralee and Patrick.

My emotions have been a mix of comfort and discomfort.

“You look just like your mom,” said the bus driver who transported my Papaw from the Flemingsburg Pioneer Trace Nursing Home to the orthopedist in Mt. Sterling.

Comments like these pain your heart after spending a few years in a space of anonymity. On one hand you’re glad someone remembers Sandy Crain. Loves you because they loved her and love their community. On the other, you feel like an alien in your own home.

I keep saying that I feel like I’ve stepped out of a time machine…

You speak to your Papaw who has traveled to nearly 90 countries in his lifetime like a baby. You wonder if he feels secure and if he knows where he is while he rides back to the nursing home.

You open the door to parties where friends have returned from places like Montana, New York, Chicago, wherever. Each looking slightly different—a shaved head, a partner in tow, weight lost or gained, minds altered—but objectively the same people.

You find yourself having to be more patient with traffic and people’s response times in conversation. There’s little to no posturing here. Breathe as your dial down your expectations…and also let young men get away with scoffing at your blunt comments.

What a woman deals with for being direct.

 

Events in my life have chronology, but it’s as if someone’s handed me the playbook and told me to skip to ACT IV.

We miss much by not reading the whole story.

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