New home, old roots

I sat in the chair with my legs anxiously swinging.

It was hard to feel like an adult in the moment when my feet didn’t even touch the ground.

Early last week, I signed a crap-ton of papers and bought a house.

I was excited and scared all at the same time.

In the past year I have moved four times. Not because of instability or inability to pay my bills, but just because my life has taken me down different roads.

I lived in Shawnee last July as I graduated college, then I moved to Cushing and lived with my aunt for the rest of the summer. I moved to Madrid, Spain through the remainder of summer and all throughout the fall.

When winter came I moved to Tulsa to be close to family members.

I have moved every six months since 2016.

Whether it’s moving across town or to a different zip code, I’ve never established roots of my own. Mainly because I’m a little scared to.

I’ve always had the freedom to do anything and live anywhere, but not anymore.

Now I have roots. A responsibility.

My brother, Matt, helped me paint yesterday. He told me the house I bought is only seven houses away from the house my biological father, Curtis, lived in when Matt was born.

Crazy to think I am living on the same street my long lost father lived on at one time.

When I gave my address to my grandpa, he went and scoped the place out while I was at work.

Turns out, the house is less than a block away from the church that my mother was a member of and where her funeral was held.

So I guess I’ve had roots all along.

I just finally uncovered them.