Family Dinner

Gathered around a foldable card table in beach chairs like a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, my family gathers from their rooms and hiding spots. There are huge boxes against every wall, cabinets that display "overweight load" on the side, and smaller ones next to them with the contents that will fill every drawer.

An order of sandwiches, a Jimmy John's moving day classic, is spread around, and a 2L of Coke Zero sits on the kitchen counter. My parents load the Office up, and my little siblings run around the empty maze which surrounds them, buzzing with energy after hiding from the chaos most of the day.

Family dinner is loud, the sound of the TV not nearly matching the buzz of conversation which steadily fluctuates and moves between subjects. The house may seem unfinished to an untrained eye, but is more finished than any of the many furnished hotel rooms we came from; it is potential.

My siblings and I belly laugh at some forgettable joke we draw out for way too long, as my parents quietly discuss what they fear might have been broken on its way in. We meticulously plan our 'moving gifts'; my older brother will want some Legos and my little brother a huge stuffed animal he'll see in the aisles of Target. My sister deliberates on a doll, or something Moana-related, as was her phase for a few years.

In the kitchen sit all the condiments we saved and cereal in the pantry. There are cups in the cabinet, but still no silverware in the drawers, which won't become necessary until the pots and pans are unpacked. For now, it's Jimmy John's treats and frozen meals; a novelty before it's back to green beans.

The TV stays on late into the night, and people come in and out before retiring to their rooms; sacred privacy and blow-up mattresses. My parents go to sleep exhausted from the day, but I go to sleep only to be in my room and dream of my new life.

My excitement for my new world outweighs the yearning for a hotel bed, and as I lay my head on the pillow I remember all the long afternoons and early evenings driving cross-country, when I folded the very same pillow over and pressed it against the car window.

There's the glow of a little nightlight in an outlet, illuminating huge squares across the ceiling, the kaleidoscope of potential contained in cardboard. My little backpack sits next to the air mattress, filled with half-eaten treats, coloring books, and earbuds. I look up to the dark, mysterious street outside my window, which will transform back into a circus at 9 am tomorrow.

I lay in my nightgown, the same one that's been reworn for the days of travel, and I think of all my other clothes that will be unpacked in a few hours. But for now, there is quiet, there is possibility, there is excitement.

This sacred moment is fleeting; it is repeated, it is seemingly irrelevant. But family dinner will always hold the most special place in my heart. It is my childhood; messy, unpredictable, full of love and excitement, accompanied by belly laughs and silly conversations, rooted in adventure. It is my unconventional home, my eccentric perfect world.