Carry On

I have unpacked the city of boxes. Mom encouraged me to not put anything away that wasn’t clean. Weeks ago she donned her rubber gloves and washed the insides and undersides of all my new cupboards and drawers. She wiped down my spices and canned food. She scrubbed the rubber feet of my food processor and blender so they wouldn’t stick to the new shelves.

I hung apron hooks on the cleat in the pantry. I honored my mother by washing all of my aprons. Together. Whoops. Six sets of sashes whipped themselves into a wad that tested even my untangling limits. I sat on a folding chair in my new laundry room, tugging and pulling, thinking about the people who gave me my aprons. Aunt Lynne gave me the lightweight vinyl Tuscan scene from El Rancho and the Caffè Florian from Venice. Funny, because Marlena de Blasi wrote 1000 Days in Tuscany and 1000 Days in Venice and my aunt is the one who introduced me to the books. Michelle made me the brown butterfly flirty knock-off. Heater sewed the green botanical with the giant gold button at the neck. Keri’s Paris print was stuffed in my arms with a going-away hug. There is also a thick, red-striped, Calphalon version long enough for a butcher to wear: Greg’s man apron.

Moving was crazy. Moving took everything I had and whipped it into an emotional wad. The boxes are gone, yes, but it will take months to untangle the move. I’m working on bit by bit after the boys are asleep (because Aurora the Apple That Fell Next to Her Mother’s Trunk never goes to bed). Memories are woven into everything.

Like lavender. Up here there is one thing deer won’t eat: lavender. It’s in every yard. It reminds me of Frenchie all day long. Bursts of purple for days but no olive-skinned brunette digging near them.

Or seeing Amy’s car, but it’s not Amy and it doesn’t pull over and linger for a gas-guzzling chat.

Or hearing neighborhood kids without being able to decipher who they are. I knew every voice before.

I unwrapped my glass citrus juicer. I used it to juice three limes for a recipe Greg didn’t particularly enjoy (too many red onions). Lime halves were left on the counter and they reminded me of the market where I buy my Thai groceries. The clerk at Vinh Long wets her finger on the open end of a lime half and uses that finger to pry the next plastic grocery bag open. Lime halves mean heavy cans of coconut milk (it’s the worst can to drop on your foot), tubs of curry paste, and bumpy galangal root.

The Powells opened our eyes to pumpkin curry and all these years later Michelle left Kneaders with an éclair because she felt like I needed something...and ended up babysitting my boys during our final walkthrough.

Pumpkin curry reminds me of the night Kamden and Tyler announced they were adopting. Joyous carpool talk ending with mango Hi-chews.

We ate so much curry with Kenon and Scott, who were responsible for my first belly laugh after the failed IVF. It was in Scott’s new truck and we had just gotten drive-thru Chick-fil-a peppermint shakes. Hard times demand laughter; they are my funny people.

Mary Gifford, the Graceful mother, taught me the secret to legit sticky rice. Sticky rice is the sidekick to all Thai superheroes. I just hugged her near the specialty breads at Costco; she hasn’t aged a day since we lived in a dump at BYU.

Over bowls of curry I first began to know the Hoffmans, the sweet one and the salty one.

I’m looking in happy eyes across so many dinner tables; I'm relishing old friendships.

You can imagine how my brain runneth over if simply juicing limes creates this kind of mental chain. I am tethered to everything. One million things under this new roof x eight memories per object = a lot of reflecting, smiling, and gratitude.

I’m in my place, a bit displaced, but not out of place. Things really are good here. I'm surrounded by niceness and new vistas. I haven’t put on my Becca scarf and curled up in the fetal position with the ward Shutterfly book yet, so that’s a plus. Perhaps that day is coming, but until then, I’m thankful I’m hurting a bit. It means I left something good. It means I left something real.

There is one suitcase I refuse to unpack. My fingers have indented the handle and the zipper never sticks. The leather is soft and forgiving. Colorful, pasted-on destination stamps hint at past holidays. Ironically, the carry-on helping me carry on in this new life is my old baggage.

Photo lyric from the hymn "Carry On" by Ruth May Fox (which was called "Firm as the Mountains Around Us" in the 1975 hymnal and used four full pages of book real estate).

Vintage green carry-on gifted to me by Blue-eyed Becca, Christmas 2015. (It should have been our last Christmas in American Fork, but our builder had different plans.) She laminated the hymn "Carry On" for the tag and her card said "Keep calm and carry on!" Choristers forever! It smells like grandma's house in a good way, and the little mirror is still affixed inside.

I only lost one thing in the move: my sunglasses. My tortoise shell anthropologie sunglasses purchased in Chicago. They felt invisible, didn't pinch my skull, and blocked sideways sun. Sadness.