I found my keys. I
rifled through a not-quite-unpacked suitcase in preparation for moving, and
there they were: the round apartment key, the red bike lock key, and the curved
key for our san lun che (cart). These
were my keys that I had used every day, and now they are useless. I cannot jump
on my bike for a quick trip to the store or pile everyone in the back of the
san lun che to bounce down the road and play with friends. I cannot go into my
apartment to sit on my couch or cook in my kitchen or sleep in my bed. Maybe
ever.
Now we have new keys, fancier keys, to a van with remote
control locks. We have a new house key and a garage door opener. I can hop in
my air-conditioned car with seatbelts and actual seats. I can unlock my door to sit on my back porch,
turn on my dishwasher, or sleep in my bed. These are all things I wanted and
appreciate. Why would I miss 20*F wind blowing in my face or a kitchen with no
hot water? But I do.
**
We washed the dishes, but I left laundry on the drying rack.
We cleared the fridge of any food that would go bad in a few weeks, but the
freezer still held leftover soup in the freezer. We packed our bags sparingly
for vacation: “I’ll just be wearing my flip-flops all the time anyway...sorry,
the American Girl dolls are too big...how many shirts do you really need?” We
turned off the gas, unplugged the appliances, locked the windows, gathered our
bags– then the lock clicked three times deadbolting the door. And we left.
We innocently left a house, a job, a vehicle, books and
blankets and toys, a whole life. With the turn of a key, that world was over.
**
I think the strangest thing about buying a new house was the
lingering thought, “But we already have a home!” As we have worked to furnish a
new house from scratch, I don’t know how many times I have said, “But I have
that in China.”
I had a mop, a fly swatter, AND an electric mosquito zapper. I had knives – my Yangzhou cleaver.
Yangzhou is famous for its knives, and I can picture the
little stone lane where I bought it. I just
bought spices and a stapler, a toilet brush and dish drainer. We are in the stage
of buying all those insignificant things you forget you even need. We had all those in China, plus rugs, a bunkbed,
bicycles, blankets, and new Christmas toys barely enjoyed.
**
We pulled out the dishes from our wedding, supplemented by other
hand me downs from family and friends. They are very nice dishes. But you see, I had favorite plates – purple
for a warm, comfortable feel or green for a fresher, cheery feel. I would seriously
choose my plate based on how I was feeling. There was this one spoon that was
just the right shape and size for cereal (very round, and just the right size).
It is all ridiculous, right? Mourning my favorite spoon.
Complaining about a temperature controlled vehicle. All that other stuff…it’s
only stuff. “You can’t take it with you” just came a little sooner than I
expected. I should just let it go.
And yet, each one of those things represents a piece of that
life we no longer have. The cereal I was eating with that perfect spoon was
probably a birthday present. Life was simpler then, when unwrapping a box of
cereal was cause for excitement.
My favorite mug was not only just the right shape and
texture, it came from the coffee shop my friends owned. How many times did I
sit in the cozy upstairs room, working on the computer, sitting quietly,
talking and laughing and crying with friends?
Kevin performed music, we celebrated birthdays, we knew the owners and
everyone who worked there. Even if we could go back, the coffee shop is gone,
and all that is left is my green mug that I don’t actually have.
**
I miss my things because I just spent $30 at the dollar store
rebuying a bunch of random stuff that I still own on the other side of the world.
I miss already having approximately everything we needed. I miss having
everything I need to cook a meal, right down to the pastry brush.
I miss our things because I miss our lives. I could almost
be there, eating toast off my purple plate while peering out the window seeing
how bad the pollution was today - rejoicing when I could see the mountains, despairing
when the rest of campus disappeared in a haze. I could be sitting in the living
room with my green mug of re-heated coffee, starting home-school. We rarely
even turned on the light, with so much light coming through our large fifth
floor window.
There is a sickeningly tidy metaphor about one door closing
and another one opening. But not only do
I hate pithy sayings, there is no tidy close to our lives that suddenly ended
with the slamming of a door.
We rebuy all the things. I let myself grieve over all that
we lost, significant and ridiculous, and I remind myself that I will find a new
favorite spoon. All of this will become familiar, and I will make new memories.
I will look at my coffee mug, and I won’t think of Target but instead of times
spent over coffee with friends.
I will turn the key to open the door of the house I love, of
the oh-so-surreal life I learn to love. I will hang my key ring by the door:
the van keys, the house key, and just maybe the red bike key, to remember that
other life behind the closed door.
