My Scattered Belongings

Ruby Kolik

In my life, I have moved five times: twice in elementary/middle school, three times in high school, and once to college. All of my things haven’t resided in one place since I was 10; I have grown accustomed to living out of boxes, suitcases, and duffle bags. It wasn’t until I started my Freshman year at Pitt this past August that I realized how scattered my life really was, and with this move ensued a series of extremely displacing events. 

When I was in 7th grade, my family moved away from our previously suburban life into a bright yellow house about fifteen minutes away from downtown Cincinnati. My mom lived with us in that house for the two following years, then moved out when she and my dad got divorced. Two months before I moved to Pittsburgh, my mom moved again from East Walnut Hills into a house in Prospect Hill. I had been switching between each parent’s house for the past couple of years, but as my things became scattered between places, as I was moving houses and trying to pack for college, I struggled to feel settled anywhere. Even as my mom acclimated to her tall, new, but old house, I had a hard time connecting with the tan walls, the creaky wooden floorboards, the drafty, cold spots, and even the dishwasher that had been broken since we moved in. I couldn’t understand how I was meant to form a bond with this strange new place, how I was meant to feel “at home.”  

My dad lived in that yellow house until I moved to college. He grew up in Pittsburgh—in Ellwood City–and last October, he moved back, this time to live in Brighton Heights. He lives now with his girlfriend and their two dogs, one of whom was mine when I lived in Cincinnati. They invite me over for dinner often, but when I go, the cold tile floor, the singular bathroom, and the skylight on the third story right over the bed that isn’t mine remind me that this isn’t my place; this isn’t and has never been my home. 

When I finally moved to Pitt, I was excited for my fresh start, and to not be living with my parents anymore. To have a place that was my own. I adorned my desk with my favorite books—Maggie Nelson, J.D. Salinger, Audre Lorde—my Sonny Angel, pictures of my friends, and dead flowers; I decorated the walls with my brother and best friend’s artwork, my mom’s posters from college, my own Donnie Darko poster and various postcards. I made the room as much mine as I could, but still, the dents on the wall that I didn’t make, the beige furniture peaking through my decor, the scratches and nail polish marks on my desk that I never put there, the squeaky bed that so many kids slept on before me all emphasized that this wasn’t my room. Still, my belongings remained scattered, now across multiple states and houses. I tried to push past this feeling and the sadness of not belonging because this is where I finally thought I would.

Over winter break, I stayed at my mom’s house. My room there is filled with my clothes and belongings, gifts from my friends, my jewelry, my prom dresses from high school, and my old journals, but when I woke up in the bed there and moved about the house, I found myself tiptoeing, trying to make as little noise as possible, like a guest staying at a stranger’s home. When I hung out with my old friends, things had become so much more distant. When they told stories of their new friends, I didn’t recognize any names, and I no longer knew what their room looked like. Being back where it was supposed to feel like home only further emphasized my displacement after moving away.

When I moved out of my childhood home when I was 10, I never imagined how jealous I would be of my friends who would always go back to their bedrooms, to those walls where every paint chip, every knick, and every carpet stain was made by them; the rooms and corners that held their youngest memories, good and bad. And I stand in so much anticipation for the day when I move again to a place where I can belong, for the day where maybe just for a bit I can feel like my room is my own. 

Edited by Brynn Murawski and Kate Castello