riyah

so i’ve been obsessed with looking at houses on zillow or redfin or whatever other site exists. it started when i moved in with my brother and lost my childhood home. maybe it’s a coping mechanism. maybe it’s just delusion. i keep telling myself—one day, that’s going to be my future. i’ll get a home of my own. just me, my dad, my younger sister, and our two cats. that’s it. that’s the dream.

it’s all i talk about with my sister now. different cities. states. sometimes even other countries. i go through phases where i get completely obsessed, convinced that if i just move there, everything will get better. everything will finally start over.

in 2020, right after we lost the house, it was oregon. that one made sense—my dad’s side of the family lives there, and we used to visit a lot in the summer. it’s close enough to california that it felt familiar, but better. quieter. people were nicer, even in bigger towns like medford. when my dad went up there this past october, a dialysis nurse literally drove him to his hotel when he got lost. personally drove him. that would never happen here. not at his regular home dialysis. that kind of kindness... that kind of neighborly-ness. i love it. i long for it. i still do. but i can’t imagine living there now. not without him. everything would remind me of him, and i don’t think i’d survive that. not really.

then in 2021, it was washington. all because i stumbled across this youtuber, becky acre homestead. and she had my dream life, really. aussie shepherds, backyard chickens, a garden full of real food, canning her own jams, a seemingly perfect quiet life with her husband and parents. it felt so stable. so safe. and one of my sisters lives in washington, though on the opposite side of the state from what i dreamed about, but still. someone familiar. someone there. i think i held onto that for a while before letting it go. slowly. quietly. like everything else.

now it’s new england. and this one's lasted longer than the others. over a year now. i don’t even know how it started. maybe i googled “safest states” or something. that is always my top priority. but i got stuck on new hampshire. i can’t stop thinking about it. it’s so different from what i’m used to, but in this weird way, it reminds me of being a kid. like when the leaves on our trees still turned orange. like when the rain would flood the school pavement and my shoes would get soaked, and my dad would stuff them with newspaper and put them in front of the heater.

i think i’d love it there. i know my dad would’ve. i think about taking him fishing. to the mountains. maybe even camping. i pretend sometimes, when i’m in one of my moods (which is most days), that everything’s fine. that he’s still coming with us.

i know that’s not healthy.

right now i’m hooked on houses with guest houses. the kind just a few feet from the main house. and i don’t even know why. it’s not like we’d need it. if i move, it’ll just be me and my younger sister. that’s it. no big, happy family to fill the rooms. no full dinner table. just the two of us.

and it’s funny. because all i do is complain about my older siblings. how much i want to get away from them. and that’s true. that’s still true. it’s part of why i love new england—none of them live even remotely close to it. but there’s this twisted little part of me that hopes... maybe they’ll see us move. maybe they’ll get jealous. maybe they’ll miss us.

and they’ll follow.

and we’d be a family again. maybe they’d live just a few blocks away and drop by without calling. maybe i’d finally be the one who hosts things. the one who has something to offer. the provider. an adult. not the burden. a peer. a person.

but 95% chance that never happens. they all have their own families now. roots cemented in california. my oldest sister is well off, she’s not leaving. my brother might, maybe, but his kid’s just starting high school. he’s not gonna rip that away just because i moved.

i think that’s how lonely i am.

even the people who make me feel like shit... the ones who pushed me toward this escape fantasy in the first place... i still want them with me. i still have this deep, weird hope that they'll come, too.

i don’t know what that says about me.

i just know it’s probably not good.

childhood memories. the one halloween when my sister and i played in the living room all day, and my dad and grandpa photographed us nonstop. i was a witch, and my sister was the blue monster from monsters inc.... sulley? i don’t know why i remember this so clearly, why it sticks with me. it wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it felt special. i wasn’t shy in front of the camera. i felt free. the love coming out of my dad and grandpa’s eyes so apparent. for once, i didn’t question it. i must’ve been 7 or 8, but the memory’s still there, vivid, like it was yesterday.

going to my older brother's townhome complex just to sneak into his community pool. i usually hated it when it was crowded, but there was one summer day when it was the fullest i’d ever seen it, and yet it’s the day i’m most fond of. i made friends with the local kids... lied that i lived there, too. pretending to be someone else. it was easy to talk to them.

donut holes with our dad every saturday. i always got a strawberry milk, and my little sister chocolate. always opposites of each other. 

the trips to huntington beach in the summer... getting sprayed down with cold water at the shower stands. my dad caring for me, washing off the sand, making me feel protected, loved.  mcdonald's on the way home, always the happy meals. mine was a hamburger with everything, because i loved the onions, even though i hated the mustard and pickles. my sister got chicken nuggets or a plain cheeseburger.

kidzbop cds. so many of them. they filled the door compartments on all four seats. we played them on the way to the beach and school. sos and with love on repeat.

the weekends spent with my cousins. one of them my exact age, the other a little younger than my sister. it felt like we were always meant to be close, like i’d been born with a friend already. me and lexie would make potions out of orange juice, dish soap, and whatever else we could get our tiny, grubby hands on, then spray them on every plant we could find in the backyard. "we’re healing them," we’d laugh.

the walks around my neighborhood. eating a family-sized bag of hot cheetos because, in the naivety that only a child could have, we got it in our heads—based on the ads on the bag—that we’d get $1,000 if we ate the entire thing in one sitting. our tongues and fingers stained bright, fiery red. mouths burning. but content. laughter filling the air.

the smell of charcoal and bbq that always reminded me of the beach. going down those concrete steps at the side of my house to see what my dad or brother was grilling. peeling piping-hot potatoes for grandpa's salad. my older sister danielle helping me... our hands bright pink, mine shaking from the burn, but hers never faltered. her hands had been hardened by years of doing this for us, the heat never fazing her. all out of love.

washing dishes for my grandpa. grabbing all my hand-me-down barbie dolls and pretending they had mermaid tails, throwing them into the sudsy water.




it all felt so endless back then. i didn’t realize i’d spend the rest of my life looking back, yearning, mourning—just for one more moment like that. just one more.