I’m a serial mover – some moves by sheer necessity, others by choice. Some moves were desperate escapes, others wild leaps into the unknown. There’s that haunting chapter in St. Pete, a mistake that clings like a persistent shadow. Even EMDR therapy couldn’t scrub away the memory of the mold house that never truly was—a nightmare etched into my soul when I was four months pregnant, forcing us to haul our dreams 2,133 miles back to the desert. I still wonder how that bittersweet dislocation echoed through my daughter’s unborn heart. Nine years have passed, and since then we’ve never bought another house.
Now, here we are, parting ways with the little 1910 casita we called home for nearly two years. Its creaky wooden floors and thick brick walls—whispering of an era when craftsmanship was more than just a word—stood as silent sentinels of our past. The antique crank windows and meticulously manicured front and backyards, remnants of a world that seems long gone, except in our historic neighborhood where we’ve lived the longest (just in different houses). I daydream about mowing my own grass someday soon, guided by a few mischievous goats. Phoenix had turned its back on us after COVID drove downtown housing prices to triple their former life, leaving us to wonder if signing our life away on a 30 year mortgage was a wise choice.
Now we’re trading the palm-lined streets for a promised land of Sweet Gum and Maple trees—a city I’ve never laid eyes on, because expectations lead to disappointment. Through it all, the only treasures I refuse to part with are the heartfelt creations of my kids, a handful of cherished articles from Mexico, and a few solid, auction-bought pieces that speak of better times. Sentimentality doesn’t come easily to me unless it’s infused with a child’s love. I buy, I purge—one of those cyclical habits born of a life on the move.
Our garage has become a patchwork of abandoned storage unit relics and auction finds that never caught the eye of anyone else. The pool house, cluttered with stray memories and nostalgic trinkets, could rival the offerings of a tiny sports memorabilia shop. I recall houses overflowing with unopened boxes—forgotten curiosities that faded into background noise until the moment came to finally let them go.
One night, an unexpected wave of melancholy swept over me (or was it just the Wellbutrin stirring?)—a farewell not just to a house, but to the desert itself. I looked down at my doughy-eyed dog, her gaze – two black marbles floating in clear jelly seemed to say, “I’m here,” and in that moment, I realized. I wasn’t abandoning what mattered. I was packing it all up, every precious piece of my life, and taking it with me. The desert would still whisper its ancient secrets, and my family would ride this wave of change with me.
I’ve always found a strangely liberating joy in letting go—the exhilarating cleanse of a cluttered space. The fleeting thrill of a new purchase may spark joy for a moment, but clearing away the old paves the way for a future where the relentless hum of urban chaos—the ghetto birds, the growls of overactive mufflers, the distant drum of gunshots and freeway roars—is replaced by quieter, more meaningful sounds.
My children have come to thrive in this whirlwind of constant change, learning to see each move not as a loss, but as a fresh adventure. Besides, they always had Pinetop until we eventually let that go too. I once worried that constant moving would leave them adrift—a life without a steadfast home. Yet, somehow, each new place has sown seeds of adventure within them. It’s our son who now leads us toward Raleigh, drawn by the beacon of an elite soccer academy helmed by a Duke coach— A promise of dreams unfolding on the field and, perhaps, a future where the goalposts shift ever closer to Europe.
And then there’s the little farm we’ll build together with my daughter—a wild, rambling haven where we’ll milk cows at dawn, our nails forever tinged with the poetry of rich, fertile soil. Here, amid the raw pulse of life, we’ll bear witness to nature’s magic as newborn goats greet the world, each fragile bleat a verse in the endless, rolling beat of the cycle of life.
So here we stand, on the cusp of another great purge—a cathartic shedding of the old to welcome a quieter, simpler, and altogether more promising life. Farewell, sweet chaos of the city; hello to the gentle, soulful symphony of new beginnings.
Slangshot 