Reflections on Identity
Watching the Movie of My Life
Taking a moment to feel and see all the beating hearts under my roof
I make a bowl of popcorn and stand at the kitchen counter eating it. The house is quiet, which is unusual. For the past month, my two-bedroom apartment has been filled to maximum capacity: my eldest daughter living home for the year while attending graduate school, my son home from college for the month with his new Scottish girlfriend, and my youngest daughter, at twelve, the only permanent resident aside from me.
I insist that my son and his girlfriend take my bedroom while I bunk — literally, in a bunk bed — with my daughters. Everyone balks at this arrangement minus my youngest, who is delighted at the prospect of a month-long sleepover. My son does not want to displace me; I do not want my son to feel that he doesn’t have a place here, our first home since my divorce, two bedrooms smaller than the last one. My eldest, already bristling at having to share a cozy pink bedroom with her baby sister, is disappointed to find herself with yet another roommate, this one who protests the window she likes to keep open at night and wants lights out by 11pm.
Complaints are registered, voices are raised, but ultimately my authority reigns. Within a few hours, my son and his…
