What to Leave Behind

When I was around 11 years old, nearly everything in my bedroom burned due an electrical fire started by a drop-light being used in one of my grandmother’s home-improvement projects. A handful of things survived, among them were my dictionary and my bible, both of which had singe marks and the bible had a piece of the ceiling adhered to its back cover. My fish were literally cooked in their tank, my boom-box radio looked like an experimental watercolor, silver and black dripping from buttons and nobs with a cassette tape of Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” trapped inside forever (I guess he would never be able to run even when he knew it was time).

It seemed extremely unjust that I should have to go to school the following day, and even more cruel was that my school uniform did not burn. Due to my grandmother’s diligent ironing it waited smugly for me in the kitchen with the other pressed clothes. My Catholic school teachers were unusually sympathetic, and I was given extra time at recess to tell my tale of woe to schoolmates.

I did not really understand what it meant that my grandparents lived on a ‘fixed income’ wihile I was growing up. I knew we ate cheese that came in five-pound rectangular cardboard box, brought coupons to eat out at the fish ‘n chips chain, and shopped for furniture and home goods at Alexander’s department store basement, and that my grandfather also brought home things he would find and clean on his rounds at the Department of Sanitation. But I never longed for anything. At least not until I lost all my clothes.

The kindness of strangers was abundant and embarrassing.The single mother next door donated old clothes from her daughter who was four years older and two sizes bigger than me. It was made clear to me that while rolling up pants and becoming crafty with duct tape was a fashion challenge, it would be something just short of sin to turn away clothes from people living on Welfare.  It was only a few weeks before family pitched in for a shopping trip that placed me in basic, necessary items like underwear that didn’t require safety pins and jeans that didn’t have a “Disco Sucks” patch on the back pocket.

There had been a lapse in the home insurance policy and while repairs weren’t too extensive–unless you mind having a hole in your bedroom wall–they were costly and would take time. So, for a couple of months afterwords, I lived with relatives, and even got to stay over friends’ homes on the weekends.

While my room was being mended and my clothes and schoolwork catching up to post-trauma time, I wrestled many nights on my relative’s couches and beds with a  reoccurring dream:  Someone would rush into wherever I was (restaurant, school, home), and notify me of an impending disaster (flood, earthquake, volcano eruption) and that I had 10 minutes to gather my stuff out of my home before it was destroyed. Was scared me in my dreams was not my home being destroyed, but that I had only 10 minutes to choose what I valued most, the rest would be gone forever. In each dream, I rushed through my room, evaluating as quickly as I could what mattered most to me. Time almost always ran out–the tide gushed at the front door, the molten lava poured around the Welcome mat–and I never felt that I got everything I wanted. I always chose something unnecessary like my watch with two plastic-figured kids on a see-saw rocking back and forth as the seconds ticked away, while leaving something precious like my dog behind. Oddly enough, as the dreams progressed, I got better at choosing and once I finally felt comfortable with my decisions (it seems to me now, though at the time felt like coincidence) the dreams faded away.

There are moments in my present life (usually when panicked or stressed, or when I must embark on to something new or deal with some change), when I revert to a mental-quick-list game of what I need to have should disaster find me. It comforts me to know that I know what is important, and should the need arise, I would know exactly what to grab: my husband (though I believe we’d be grabbing each other mutually!), my cat (squirm as she will), and my wallet (have you ever had to cancel your credit cards and get a new license?). I was surprised by what I would not take: No photos, laptops, nor jewelry; and, not even the turtle-shaped travel alarm clock, which, now that my grandparents are gone, reminds me of the trips we’d take together and how it was one of the few things my grandmother let me play with and never yelled about my being careful. My dictionary and bible would have to fend for themselves because while the first two that survived got lost in transit during a move, I’ve discovered that I am usually never at a loss for words and my faith is something that resides in my heart and–oddly enough for this writer–not in a book.