Unpacking

It’s quiet in the mornings, the only sounds the chirping of different varieties of birds nested in the nearby trees. Once in a while, the heat clicks before running its course through the house, or the refrigerator unloads another batch of ice down the chute. Not the sounds of deep bass pumping from oversize stereos of cars passing by, bad brakes squealing, or children yelling on their way to the nearby elementary school.

Cardboard boxes lay strewn about the house, containing remnants of my past: stuffed animals from my girlhood, files of paper from my academic years, trinkets and decorations waiting for a new home. They are coated with the dust of time, the thin motes and particles swirling like eddies in the sun-slanted air as I lift these items from their boxes. I unwrap the music boxes from my hasty newspaper padding, protection during transportation. Slowly, I wind up the switches. Nothing dredges up remembrances like music; the clear, sweet notes tinkle through the air, echoing off the empty walls of the house and tugging at the memories in my heart. There is “Love Me Tender” from the very first music box my mother gave me on my birthday when I was a little girl, with two magnetic swans circling on the mirrored surface. There is “Blue Danube” from a tiny music box I once bought myself. There is “Love Story,” a gift from a former date. And then there is “Younger Than Springtime,” a Christmas gift when Tung and I had first started going out.

One of my professors once told me, “Everyone, at one point or another in their lives, must get acquainted with loneliness.” I waft through the rooms of my new house, feeling homesick for my old one. As I put unboxed things in their rightful places, I feel the loneliness keenly, embracing it to come to terms with it, and to learn how to move on.

These smells that hover in some of the rooms, they are not mine. They are of some stranger’s past life, so familiar to her that she had grown accustomed and eventually did not notice them at all. I step into a room and am assaulted by the unfamiliarity of the scent. I gradually chase out these foreign smells with my subtle perfumes, and the steamy aroma of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, mousse, and lotions. I bask the kitchen that first weekend in the smell of sautéing vegetables and shrimp, of garlic browning in a pan of oil, of onions running clear before I throw on the ground beef—the comforting scents of home cooking.

Whereas before I became comfortable in the small sphere of my own room, now I have an entire house to tend. My world just got bigger. Every room calls for my attention, and I think of ways to furnish them, decorate them, maximize space. There’s much more to clean, but also more to enjoy. “Hello, house,” I think as I unpack, “I live here. I am your master now.” I’ve tamed the old roof, the broken fence, the burst pipe, the rotted window, the water reflux from the drainage clog. Now, I stack pans in cupboards, slide books on shelves, throw fresh sheets on the beds, and lay claim to what’s finally mine.