“Be careful!” my mom cried out.
I eyed the tent above me—it was still super high. Heeding my mom’s unnecessary warning, I used branches near me to hold my weight as I stood up. Bracing my body against the trunk, I reached up for the tent. But my fingers barely grazed it.
“It’s too high!” I shouted down.
“Wait! I have an idea!” my dad said, excited. Too excited. He ran to the car and opened the trunk, unloading a bunch of things before opening the compartment with the spare tire. I squinted as I watched him reach for something. He held it up. A crowbar.
I glanced up, measuring the distance. Might work.
“Okay, toss it up!” I said.
My dad was swinging it back when my mom grabbed it from him. “Wow, are my children and husband intelligent.” She shook her head and went to the car, crowbar in her grasp. After a while, she fished out a nylon rope.
My dad’s trunk was like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag.
She tied one end around the crowbar, in an expert knot that managed to be both loose and secure.
Ron whistled. “Wow, Mom the Boy Scout.”
“Girl Scout. And it’s called being practical,” she said with a snort. “I don’t know how you are both alive, surviving so much stupidity.” The words were harsh but said with good humor.
Then she tossed the crowbar-less end of the rope to me...and I caught it. I pulled up the crowbar and untied the rope easily, thanks to my mom’s savant rope-tying skills. Something to be discussed at a later date.
I was able to reach the tent with the crowbar and pushed it, hard. It jiggled but didn’t dislodge from the branches. I took a breath and tried a couple more times, hearing my family cheer me on below. Well, cheer and heckle. And after the fifth time, it tumbled down, bumping into a few branches before it landed with a gentle thud.
“Yes!” I pumped my fist in the air and my mom applauded loudly. I scrambled back down with Ron’s help, and when my feet hit the dirt, I was flushed with victory. When I looked at my family, my irritation with them was gone. Like, not all gone. Because it would always be there. They were my family. It was unavoidable.
But most of it had been swept away from my body like dust in the windstorm. Maybe being lost in the wilderness had reset something within me. In London, I’d tried to break away from the bonds of these people, feeling the whole wide world out there. But I’d always be tied to them. It was just that, now, I knew there would always be some slack—giving me space. And whenever I wanted to, I could pull myself back in. Go back home.
When the tent was packed in a tidy little roll in its nylon case, my dad tossed it into the trunk. “Well, I guess you were right. Time for a new tent.”
I stared at it. Suddenly I wanted to curl my body around it, hold it close. Protect it.
“Let’s keep it.”
My dad looked at me in surprise. “Really?”
I nodded, shutting the trunk with a hard thud. “Let’s go home.” I wanted to go home, to LA, so badly.
We got into the car and it felt larger. Spacious. And I found myself missing the press of our sleeping bags against each other. The proximity of my family. Always within reach.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maurene Goo is the author of several critically acclaimed books for young adults, including I Believe in a Thing Called Love, The Way You Make Me Feel, and Somewhere Only We Know.
She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and cat, Maeby.
FIRST WORDS
Varsha Bajaj
My grandparents and parents say America is that shining place across the ocean where scientists make breakthroughs and universities raise brilliant minds. After my brother, Rishi, was born with a hearing impairment, my father created a file of articles that he clipped from newspapers and magazines about sign language, cochlear implants and deaf education in America. “Look,” he would say, “look! Progress!” and thrust the article in front of us. The grandparents, aunts and uncles all nodded in awe and agreement. Soon others started bringing Baba articles.
Eight years later, it was a thick file.
Then, one of Baba’s colleagues visited New Jersey. He came back with more articles and shining stories about American universities and schools.
The file became even thicker—too thick to ignore.
Baba, a physics researcher, started looking into jobs and visas.
One year later, we’re leaving everything we know behind for America and Rishi’s future. Everyone thinks we are so lucky. Are we?
The day we got our American visas is carved in my mind like the Om tattooed on Ma’s wrist. She gave me a suitcase and said, “Priya, pack carefully. That’s all the space you have.”
How do you pack your life into a suitcase? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. I knew it was just as hard for Ma and Baba. Ma had packed her spice box and the family idol of Ganesha in her suitcase first. The important things.
Watching me place and remove things from my bag, Ma advised, “Everything has to earn its place.” She said, “Take what you truly need and what makes you most happy.”
I couldn’t pack my collection of smooth rocks, my doll from when I was three or the kite that Baba and I flew every January. I couldn’t fit Raj, the boy who made me dream; Aunty Roopa, who lived next door; my best friends; or Dada and Dadi.
I picked my two favorite books, Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, and wrapped them in the folds of my skirt.
When we cross through security at the airport, I keep turning back for one more look at my grandparents. Here’s where we part ways. I’ve lived with them all my life, and today I’m leaving them behind. All the elder relatives I know are cared for by their sons. Your children
