Barbara Melville-Jóhannesson

West Light and Aeroplanes

  1. They say that moving is one of the most stressful things you can do.
  2. In such times, list-making brings relief. I take great care in crafting a breathtaking collection of lists within lists.
  3. And I have no idea where it is.
  4. My first move was in 1986. A kid with an old soul, I bolted up the ramp of the moving truck, tugged on the guy’s sleeve, and told him we weren’t ready. We need a few more years, I said.
  5. My last move was a decade ago. I walked out of the home that got me through my twenties, crestfallen. I felt that same desperate need for a few more years.
  6. And now, I’m packing up my life again. This time is different, because I don’t need a few more years. I need hot water, fresh air, and carpets.
  7. I’m exhausted, after months of epic inequities: unreadable forms, mortgage brokers who only use the phone, rejections to my access requests, and no you can’t have your dream house in the country, for it will crumble and crush you in your sleep.
  8. It’s worth noting at this point that my partner—my devout helper in life and removals—does not make lists.
  9. He utters ‘Oh, it’ll be fine!’ in response to imminent disaster, and prioritizes the pointless thing in front of him instead of what actually needs doing.
  10. For the next few weeks, nothing will irritate me the way he does.
  11. Except packing. Benign, bulky objects I’ve never seen before materialize; trash cans, coat hangers, cables that connect to nothing. When I pack them—or rather, when I force them into bags—they triple in size and pointiness.
  12. It never ends. When the universe succumbs to heat death, I will still be in some dust-ridden corner trying to stuff a massive lampshade I barely like into a suitcase I never use.
  13. Though, in the spirit of being positive, perhaps my new mattress will have arrived by then.
  14. The wardrobe at my Old Place is the biggest challenge to physics. It tunnels into some inverse Narnia that snows mold onto mountains of crap.
  15. I spend weeks scraping off said mold and disposing of said crap. I cannot bear to take it with me.
  16. In a similar vein, I carefully place my entire collection of autoimmune diseases into the largest, sturdiest box I can find, and seal it shut with a winning blend of determination and duct tape.
  17. I get the shiny new keys on the agreed day, and yet it feels out of the blue. I pull on an old raincoat and throw 6 ragged boxes and 2 confused cats into the car. I look like I’m escaping the apocalypse.
  18. On the first night of my allegedly gentle move, I have no toothbrush, underwear or patience. There is, however, no shortage of toothbrush holders.
  19. Which I find in the same bag as three rollerblades and a muffin tin.
  20. The last time I baked muffins was 14 years ago.
  21. And I have never, ever been rollerblading.
  22. For those next few nights, the unfettered street lamp is a comfort. But the cats cry the kind of cry that stays forever in the walls. They cannot be consoled. They don’t know why they’re here.
  23. I don’t know what to tell them.
  24. The carpet becomes dotted with obtrusive, shredded bits of itself, not to mention fur, cardboard and Subway. Every time I see it, it’s like I’m processing it for the first time. I call it ‘floor fatigue’.
  25. I try to order a vacuum cleaner, but the couriers say nobody lives here. This zip code ‘doesn’t exist.’ I skip the existential musings and go straight to rage.
  26. My partner tries to help by asking excruciating questions about what I want to do, where I want to go, what do we want to eat, what time is it.
  27. I close my eyes and say ‘I don’t know.’
  28. He takes an insouciant nap on a freshly-assembled sofa that doesn’t match the room. Heavy, poorly-packed boxes are piled high around him; a little city on the verge of collapse. I worry the last thing he ever sees will be the words ‘COOKBOOKS AND SCARVES’ hurtling towards him.
  29. Then again, if his body generates one more infuriating noise relating to his dust allergy, I’m not even sure I’d weep.
  30. It is a relief, then, that the Big Move—the part with the truck and people who lift impossibly heavy things for you—comes and goes with relative ease.
  31. But we couldn’t pack it all, and so, we go back to the Old Place to fill the car again, and again, and again…
  32. Despite the cold and mold, the Old Place had its perks. My study faced south; the nostalgic side of the sun. It took me to every memory of good times. Childhood summers outside, holding hands in my twenties.
  33. I liked the literal view too. The guy across the street was always cutting the grass or trimming a hedge. There was nothing special about his garden, but his methodical care was a comfort. He was consistent; predictable. We called him Lawn Man.
  34. I don’t know if he’s there, because there’s no time to look. I have to keep packing. I despise it. I sweat, and my heart races. My hair smells, but I’m too tired to wash.
  35. There, surrounded by trash bags, the autoimmune box explodes. Fallout spews. I cannot walk, sit, stand, breathe, think or even rest. The misery and pain I feel seems immeasurable.
  36. But I don’t blame my body and brain. I blame the help we didn’t get. The support that never comes. ‘Moving is hard for everyone’, they said.
  37. The days pass, somehow, and what is packed must be unpacked. I decide to fill my bookcases with things that happify my brain; my ukulele, my shells, my maps. But I can’t, because hidden deep in the porous shelves is the mold.
  38. I discover all my sentimental boxes have the same secret blooms.
  39. And with that, my savings and my childhood are in the garbage.
  40. ‘Oh I hear you Barb, we had a ghastly move too. They were ten minutes late and made a 1 centimetre dent on the underside of our baby grand!’
  41. I don’t care if they made a 1 centimetre dent in your baby. You get to ignore this ableist world.
  42. The weeks drag by, and I look out the new windows. There is no Lawn Man, but there are aeroplanes, glowing with light from the west. The first time I see one taking off, I’m so tired I think it’s a flying car.
  43. We sit by the sunset view with burrito bowls on our laps. There is a cat on my feet, and another on his. I have a roof over my head, carpets—now clean—and books on the shelves.
  44. He is happy; content and secure. I wish I could share this with him.
  45. Yet I still feel this zip code isn’t here.
  46. So I watch a plane take off. One, and then another, and then all of them. I feel a proto feeling— relief, I think—as each one finds the clouds. It all looks impossible. When I watch them, time disappears.
  47. My partner was right. Sometimes the pointless thing in front of us—in my case an Airbus A320—is where our focus needs to go.
  48. Every day, I close my eyes and place my arms out to the sides. I move them gently up and then down; a swan in slow motion. I spare no thoughts for those who might see me glide.
  49. It is unnerving, for a moment or two, like I will fall out of the sky. But when I open my eyes, I’m safe. Or at least, I know I will be.
  50. It’s several months before I dream of the Old Place. I’m in my study, drenched in transportive light. I follow the music to the kitchen. It is the same as it was; rustic, old and freezing. He is chopping vegetables for dinner, in his beautiful, chaotic way. The song has set off something in him, and I feel it too; an avalanche of memories. With a sad smile, he reaches for me.

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About the Author

Barbara Melville-Jóhannesson is a writer, linguist and human-rights activist from Edinburgh, Scotland. Barb lives a neurodivergent and disabled life, and loves sharing learning, celebrating lived experiences, and curating meaningful anti-ableist action.