My dad moved 15 times before I turned 18 and my mom moved once when I was 15, across the street. I lived in apartments and lofts and two story homes in every part of town with my dad every other week or every Sunday and Wednesday, or whatever my parent's arrangement was at the time. One day my dad picked me up from elementary school and said, "Surprise! We moved." It was to another apartment in the same building, the walls and rooms different, the air familiar. My dad had a new girlfriend for each apartment and they all had one thing in common—they displaced me from my royal throne beside my one true love who I missed every moment I was not with him. Twenty years ago, Dad moved out to the country with his third and final wife, a woman as beautiful and sophisticated as Europe. She dug in her heels and gardening tools to make their squatter's haven a piece of heaven. My mom moved out of the house I was born to, into the house across the street 25 years ago, and lives there still. I live in the house I grew up in when my parents were first married and they were first a family and home didn't yet mean so many different things. As a Cancer, I've heard I carry my home on my back but I'm ready to lay it down, I'm ready to unpack. My son lives in the room I once did, full of ghosts and angels, childhood dreams and nightmares. This winter we peeled the layers of wallpaper and paint down to the bone, the white plaster a clean slate, and what did I feel? I felt the past meet the future and then we painted it over again.