The Traveling House

I’ve heard this all before from my brother. “Where are you going to sleep?” “How are you going to eat?” “What if you run out of money?” His questions are valid, but not important. My pack is ready. It has all I need–computer, maps, clothes, travel guide, water purifier. I just have to go out the front door and on the road–just to start would be an accomplishment. The door seems so far away–across the room, the world. My brother’s voice is starting up again as I write this. “What about the house? We have to take care of it. How am I going to take care of?” Our parents died, leaving us the house. Our house is old; a mix of stone and wood on James St. right on the banks of the Walkill River in Rosendale, NY. I’m trying to think of something to say to my brother as a car on the street outside honks. “I’m taking the house with me,” I say.


“It’s the traveling house. It traveling in me, bro.”

“What are you talking about?”

I’m getting up in a moment. I’m ready to leave. I am the house and the house is me. Its memories are my memories. Its life has been mine and now we are leaving. Going on the road–where I’ve always wanted to be. I know my brother will be okay. He has always been tough.

The door seems closer now, beckoning me, calling me. Outside the world is open and colorful with the changing leaves of the trees of the North Eastern Autumn. Reds, oranges, and browns are waiting for me to walk by, so what am I waiting for?

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