I left my city and left my toothbrush behind in my family’s house.
That house is no longer my home. I feel I left it for good.
That house is no longer my home. I feel I left it for good.
I tried to draw a map of the country I was born in, but my memory failed. I no longer know what it looks like.
I have many toothbrushes now, but I miss the one that stayed. We used to keep all our toothbrushes in one cup. Mine is still there, close to my family, while I am not.
Each move to a new place meant buying a new toothbrush. I use them every day without thinking, even though they quietly record each transition.
As a child, I traveled with my mother every six months. I often forgot my toothbrush and bought a new one near my grandfather’s house. I chose the expensive ones because I could. I carried them back with pride.
I wonder how many times this routine has changed me.
Maybe I wasn’t brushing my teeth.
Maybe I was brushing my identity.
Maybe I was brushing my identity.