Another Home

“...And they’ll have a choice, to stay here or go home to their country of origin, with their families. You’ll see, it’ll be good for them, great for everyone.”

Mama said we’re leaving tonight, and I have no idea where we’ll end up. I’m so scared that I’ll leave behind something I really need. 

I adore this house. It’s kinda small and very old, with a crooked picket fence and a red brick chimney we never use anymore. I love the picture windows in the living room. On a snowy day, I look out, and the view reminds me of a page in a storybook I heard when I was little, with clever characters that enjoyed a happy ending in a cottage at the end of a sparkly rainbow.

My favorite part of our place, besides the kitchen where I help Mama cook up her soups and stews, the aroma of fresh veggies from the market filling the house, is our backyard flower garden. I hurried home from school that day with the seedlings in a paper cup. When I found the ideal, well-lit spot, I sprinkled some of Daddy’s mulch into the hole I dug. I followed all the instructions on the packet, and before long, my sunflowers touched the top of the trellis.

When she visited us, Grandma said the flowers looked like the ones in her mother’s

garden—I’ve never seen her cry that way. I wish I could take them with me somehow, but I guess they’ll be here for someone else to enjoy, since Mama says we can only take the most important things when we leave.

I doubt anyone at school will miss me, since no one talks to me much, not even during recess or at lunchtime. Last week, our teacher read this story about a group of people forced to leave their land, when someone decided they had to live in a different place. They carried shoeboxes brimming over with all of their belongings inside, their heads bowed, as they filed toward a rail station under a gunmetal gray sky. Even the kids moved in slow motion, with their sad, empty eyes. They clutched their plush animals and clung to their mothers. 

I wondered if they were ever happy again. Was their new home better than their old one, or did they ever have another place to call home? 

When Miss Smith finished the book, I noticed a few of my classmates wore huge grins, while some of the others cried or held back tears the way I did. I wanted to share how the story made me feel, but she called on the kids in the front of the room and ignored my raised hand. I make pretty good grades, but I really won’t miss school, because I love to read. I didn’t go this week-Mama said I could stay home since there’s so much to do here at home. 

“Julia, it’s dinnertime!”

“Coming in a few minutes, Mama.”

I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I still need to figure out what else I can fit in this suitcase besides my old iPad and charger, earbuds, my New Testament, and my journal. In the other pile, I’ve got my blue ribbon from the Science Fair in 4th grade, my copy of Little Women, its cover hanging on for dear life, and my pink and purple gel pens. I think I can cram my pillow on top, just in case I can’t stay awake. I don’t want to end up with a sore neck again. If I can’t take anything bigger from here, at least I’ll have something to keep me a bit comfortable in our new home.

Mama says home is where you find peace with the people who hold you up when life gets hard. So, maybe the people in the story we heard in class stayed together and made a new start, blessed with the safety and comfort they found in each other. I hope it’s the same for us.

I remember the only time when I truly felt scared. When I was younger, I went with Daddy to the hardware store. I kept walking while he shopped for the tool he needed. I had been there before, and I thought I could keep up with him, but I got lost anyway. A nice lady helped me find Daddy, and he hugged me so tight when she brought me to him. He wasn’t very mad, and he said, “I knew you’d be fine, that you’d find your way back to me.” After that, I never wandered away again, and we never told Mama what happened. But I think she knows somehow, because she always keeps me tethered to her side. I hate the idea of feeling lost, not knowing where I'm headed or what’s to come.

Just when I finally stuff everything but my pillow into my suitcase, I hear it. The walls shake, as if a heavy object swung and ripped through the side of the house. Bits of plaster shake loose from the ceiling and shower me with a chalky mist. I drop to the carpet and crouch to cover my head with the edge of my comforter. 

I’ve never heard Mama sound so desperate and frightened. “...me and my daughter here. We’re just about to eat dinner, please! We have our pa—” 

Heavy boots tromp on the wooden floors. The door opens. My hands never shake, but

my heart drums in my ears, and I can’t control the queasiness in my stomach, like I need to throw up.

“Young lady, show yourself and come with us, NOW!” The voice sounds like one of our mean P.E. teachers, and I pull myself up on quaking knees, my hands in the air the way the resettlement group advisors told us. 

“Is your father here?” A helmet covers his head, and a scarf conceals the lower half of his face that I don’t wish to see.

“No, and I don’t know where he is. He left for work this morning.” I ignore the tear that escapes and slides down my hot cheek. It’s what he told me to say, though I’m sure he left from there by now with plans to meet us later. I clamp my mouth shut and will myself to use one word answers ending with “ma’am” or “sir”. 

His hand on my arm feels like cold steel. I glance at the piles on my bed, and before he can drag me out, I swipe my pillow and stuff it under my arm near my jacket’s inner pocket. I don’t think of asking about my half-packed suitcase or trying to grab my journal or iPad. 

I follow Mama, frog-marched by another taller officer, her soft sobs echoing through the den. I glance over to the table at the roast chicken and bowls of steaming veggies and mashed potatoes, their rich, buttery aromas rumble my empty stomach.

I linger at the threshold, an image of Daddy floating up as he sipped his coffee, in his blue button down, with his warm smile before he walked out the door this morning. He waved, and I mumbled goodbye, lost in the page I wanted to finish. Now, I hope he’s safe wherever he is now, even though the idea that we’ll see him again seems unlikely. 

When we’re finally settled into the back seat of the van, with its dirt caked panel and

narrow, gritty aisle, I tug out my pillow and nestle it under my head. I sweep my gaze across a collection of permutations of mothers with children younger than me, their tiny hands holding onto their blankets or teddy bears. 

“We’re together, Juju-bean. That’s the most important thing. We’ll have a new home, I promise.” Mama's lips on my forehead feel warm and sweet, like the honey I put in my hot cocoa sometimes.

I can’t see my reflection in the window. It's too dark to see what's out there, and this isn't that kind of trip anyway. When I was younger, after she had buckled me into my seat, Mama would tell me what to look for as she drove us. When I spotted the object or the place, she cheered me on, and we’d play our game on the journey home.

I guess it’s OK that I can’t see anything now. I don’t feel giddy or joyful, so I close my eyes as we pull away and try to imagine a cottage bordered by orange blossoms and towering sunflowers, with sparkling picture windows looking out upon an endless, winding road.

I know we'll make it to a place like that, one day.