Moving Day

The first time I moved I was days old. No trauma there. The next move was different. I was nine and we were leaving the only place anything had ever happened to me. It was where I learned to climb (and practically live in) trees. It was where I woke up to Christmas morning. It was where my schools, friends, and special places were at little more than arm’s length and the only place I’d ever called home. Leaving, even for a new house I’d seen built, was the most painful experience of my life until then. Parents try to make light of those times, but kids know what’s what. The new place might have a bedroom just for me, but it wouldn’t have a ramshackle grape arbor in the backyard where I could play house for hours. The never-lived-in house would have beautiful decorating but none of the floors would be scuffed-just-right wood and there was no raised porch to jump from. The new neighborhood would have friends I hadn’t met yet, but they wouldn’t be the Romaldos or the Tagaliers or the Mocks. None of what I would come to love about the new place could make up for losing the old place. At least not right away. Judith Viorst, wise to the ways of childhood, understands. In Alexander, Who’s Not (Do you hear me?) Going To Move, she validates what it’s like to be a kid and experience loss. I wonder if she writes big kid books.

http://www.amazon.com/Alexander-Whos-Hear-Mean-Going/dp/0689820895

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judith_Viorst