POV ("point of view") is a new series that addresses many of the same themes covered in my Equals Record column: growing up, saying yes to adventure, learning to embrace a quarter-life crisis. Each POV entry will include a photograph and a short reflection based on what’s pictured. While my previous column focused largely on ideas, POV will focus on moments - glimpses, glances, tiny stories.
When I was little, I believed that homes - like my collection of stuffed animals with frayed ears and missing eyes - had hearts. When we moved from Los Angeles to Honolulu, I was seven, and I apologized to my bed, to the figures on my patterned wallpaper, to the patch of sunlight on the tomato-red carpet, for leaving them behind.
Months passed. Sitting in my third grade classroom with plumeria trees and yellow hibiscus in the window, I listed details I missed about the house in a journal entry. “I’ll live there again one day,” I wrote.
In two weeks, I’ll move out of my apartment in Williamsburg, my tenth home in twenty-seven years.