Empty-nesting has made a nomad of me.
The last place I could honestly call "home" was the last space I cohabited with my kids — a big old house in Asheville with aggregate walls painted mango, fire-engine red, scarlet, aqua, and teal. Now I live in Atlanta in an off-white town home with views front and back and long stretches of drywall in-between. Two of my three kids live minutes away, but I left one in Asheville, out of daily reach.
My books and art — the only belongings that help make a "home" — have been in boxes or draped for almost two years. They are stored with other stuff in what I call a "way station" — a mistake I made along the way, a place to stay while on the way, a house that is devoid of color, yard, and kids and is on its way to market.
The Way: Twelve Steps to (extremely privileged) Homelessness
1. My eldest child and only daughter left home.
2. My first son left home.
3. I adopted a very territorial dog simultaneous to my first acute feelings of homelessness.
4. In anticipation of my younger son's departure, I moved to a house that can never be home.
5. My youngest left the house that can never be home.
6. My partner and I drove out West and back, pulling a twenty-three foot trailer that was essentially home for over 7200 miles.
7. My cat, Elmo, died while my partner, dog, and I were out West and way too far from home.
8. I sold the last place I could honestly call home while searching for a home in Atlanta.
9. I began seriously debating building a house in the woods of NC.
10. My daughter announced she was pregnant.
11. My dog and I acquired skin conditions and nervous habits while living in the house that could never be home.
12. My partner and I determined to make Atlanta home.
