the paper backpacker

Isn’t our time finite no matter where we are? 

Since my breakup earlier this year, I’ve told myself to enjoy Houston while I have it. Because now that I have the freedom, I’m no longer tethered here. 

Not tethered to a man, to a possibility, to a false hope. No longer tethered to a dream that would never come to be. A potential happy ending that we both knew was not achievable. 

But now that ‘possibility’ itself has yawned itself open in front of me, I balk at the opportunity to roam freely. To step onto that tongue, the path that is the rest of my life. 

Like a pup with a leash, attached to nothing, I wander around my backyard, looking beyond the gaping fence. Talking to others on the outside. Wondering what it’s like. But finding excuses to stay. 

I do love Houston. But would I ever love another place the same? If I left, would I ever love this place the same? 

It’s happened before when I’ve left. I’m equally as terrified at never leaving again as I am of leaving and not finding here as I left it. 

So I hold onto this place with both hands. Feet pressed deep against the damp warm pavement. Drowning in nostalgia like I do in the flooded streets. 

It’s hurricane season. I find myself driving through rains to catch shows, roam old haunts, and try to check off my city bucket list.

I’ve been working on the list for years. And as I check off more, I see more places crop up and favorites that close down. I wonder what good is a list of it’s all going to expire, disappear, or be replaced? A place can still change even before your eyes. Whether you leave or not. 

Nothing is ever the same. But still, I hold onto the notion that maybe if I experience, go, find, explore where I’m from, that maybe I’ll be able to hold on, capture, archive these places into something permanent. Or that I’ll find myself. 

That I’ll make sense of why this place is the way it is. Why it made me the way I am. Why it’s so important to clear the map that is Houston. Why it’s important that I leave but terribly miss it too. 

I’m listening to Gemini Rights by Steve Lacy. His songs find me at the same time as when I returned to Houston four years ago. Then too, I was fresh off a shattered relationship and identity. Rebuilding myself again. 

Then – in 2022, the album dulled my heart into a deep sadness. Reminded me of yearning and pain. Represented the mistakes I made and would make. Now I can finally listen to Bad Habit again and not switch it off immediately. 

I listen to it and thank that part of my life for giving me what it did. Thank Houston, New Caney, and Kingwood for loving me back but refining me, molding me into the woman I am meant to become. Carving each layer of skin into a new shape and scuffing the edges down. 

Ironically enough, the song that catches me now again, is called Sunshine. A bit of an omen I hope. And what do you know? Steve is coming out with another album.

So I hold onto the rest of this year. Hold on to my family here. My history is everywhere I look. My mother’s, cousin’s, grandfather’s, all the Texans’ that lived here prior. 

I look at my hands, the new tiny stars that adorn the edges of my palms. I look at them, my new tats, new stretch marks, my new self and think:

Well, you survived. And you’ll keep doing it no matter where you are. 

But for now, enjoy where you’re from. The version you know will be gone soon enough.