Image of a living room
Photo by Patrick Perkins on Unsplash

In the beginning of 1985, when I had recently moved into my first home, if you had told me that I would be evicted soon, I would have laughed at you. No way! Those walls made me feel safe and comfortable. As if I had, not a care in the world. As if I were floating.

Every morning, I woke up feeling tiny but happy in a universe that loved me. Of course it was rather curious that a house could make me feel that way. If you’ve ever met first-time home owners you’ll know how enthusiastic they are about being domestic. They stay put at home. Talk a lot about food and mention comfort a couple of times a minute. Well, you’ve met me. 

I had elaborate meals and shared about them obsessively online. I invested in cleaning agents and was quite proud of my collection. I dreamt of flexing my green thumb. I trolled lifestyle bloggers after watching all their content. On stormy nights, I rearranged the furniture because lightning scared me.

In the afternoons I moved the furniture around and exercised in the living room. After a couple of months, when I began to gain strength, I would attempt handstands. At first I was pathetic. There was a lot of kicking the walls involved. But I now feel capable, as if this is not beyond me. I feel like I’ve grown as a person in these last 9 months.

In early November, I woke up early one morning feeling uneasy. I now know that that feeling was a premonition. But that fateful morning, I didn’t know what it was. It was like the discomfort you feel before puking. As if something were going to happen. I headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on for coffee. I reached out for the jug to get a drink of water. The jug fell from my hand in slow motion and broke, spilling water everywhere. That was a sign.

Walking to the front door to collect the newspaper, I felt a pull as if a giant magnet were attracting me from the opposite side of the street. That is the last thing I remember. 

I woke up kicking and screaming on a cold, metal weighing scale. There were noises all around. And people milling around doing things, looking busy. Before they wrapped me up tight, I saw my wrinkly exterior and felt air on my skin for the very first time. I was born, a healthy child at 7.13 am on a Thursday morning in November of 1985.