It was my seventh birthday. The air was stale even at 10 a.m., as it was on most late August days. An echoing hard knock on the forest green-colored door that guarded our house on Grace Ave alarmed me. Even though I was only seven (hours into the age), the knock raised an alert in my stomach that made it drop many stories. Two officers, one holding papers, spoke to my mother as I stood in the doorway, shielding behind her legs. Both officers entered our house, took our furniture, and started throwing it outside. My mother told me to pack my bag with my essentials, which were at the time my favorite blanket, and my Batman action figures. I remember the bass
in my mother’s voice as she begged the men not to take away our home. I remember the bright
eyes of each of our neighbors as they watched from their kitchen windows. I remember the
sound of broken glass as each of the dishes and mugs that once filled our kitchen and served us
dinner every night hit the concrete ground right at the curb of our street. But what I remember most is watching the brand new set of bunkbeds that were an early birthday present being hauled away. I begged for bunkbeds for years to accommodate my friends for sleepovers, but as quickly as my wish was granted after blowing out the candle of last year’s cake, my brand new bed was being tossed into the trash. The sequence of events was blurry after that, as my mother and I
bounced around for years and couch-surfed in many friends’ living rooms. In each new apartment we had, I was hesitant about unpacking my items and often kept them in boxes to not get too comfortable. Even as the years went by and I had my apartments with roommates or current significant others, I refrained from mixing my kitchenware or knick-knacks with theirs because the idea of being vulnerable in my own home was foreign. In one relationship, we combined our books on a bookshelf (in alphabetical order of author’s last name), which fit perfectly into the
space. After a nasty breakup, I came home from work, and the bookshelf was half empty, and my books were the only thing left that was standing in that relationship. My heart went back to my old house on Grace Ave as my body was standing in its same form just a decade later. But this time, instead of feeling empty and without shelter, I reminded myself that it was healthy to let myself be vulnerable and trust another space and another person, as it took me many years to do so. I also realized that I even trust myself. Yes, the books were gone along with some furniture out of our shared apartment, but I still had shelter. I will be okay.

However, to this day, I still crave having bunkbeds even as an adult.