When I started middle school, my parents installed a ring camera in our living room. It sat idly amongst the other items on our shelves, nestled within the perpetual chaos. The surface could be considered cluttered to the untrained eye, but I loved the way it shamelessly showcased our lives. The pictures in frames provided gentle — though oftentimes embarrassing — reminders of my childhood. Me, in a yellow swimsuit, no younger than eight years old, flipping my wet hair on a family vacation. Another depicts my father and I in 2009, poised in front of a freakishly realistic backdrop somewhere in mainland China. Our family trip to Vegas, my sister and I pretending to push our parents off the edge of the Grand Canyon. The pictures and trinkets strewn about our living room offered entertainment for guests, as I remember many laughing and showing the items to the camera, as if it was seeing them for the first time, too. 

My family has always loved to host. I remember the orange morning light spilling through the kitchen windows as I frantically hurried down the stairs on Sundays, perpetually late to our family friend Zao Cha (traditional Chinese high tea). As Chinese New Year neared, I lay on the wooden floorboards of my bedroom with my self-proclaimed cousins as we listened to our parents singing along to our old karaoke machine. On Thursday nights, after cheer practice, the floorboards creaked as my mama and I bounced up and down in our living room while my best friend and I taught her our latest choreography. I grew into the habit. Throughout the better part of my teenage years, my house was filled with people and items serving as evidence that they had a good time— bottles from the night before, my friends sprawled out under the gazebo lights, and pairs upon pairs of shoes kicked off carelessly at the door. The camera caught it all. Every time someone would enter the house, they would greet it as if it were a member of the family, smiling into its eye. 

My house invited everything and everyone in, even the ivy that crept up the side of the crumbling grey brick. I found solace in how firmly it stood: large, permanent, and indestructible. 

The day that I left for college, my best friends came in the early morning to say goodbye. Despite the heat of August, we clung to one another to soak in the warmth that only home can supply. 

“I have to go. I promise I’ll come to visit as much as I can.” I mumbled through the fabric of their sweaters. 

“And we’ll still be here.” They replied. 

“Promise?” I asked, my eyes burning. 

“We promise.” 

The sweat dripped down my back as I carried my luggage up four flights of stairs — 18 years worth of belongings stuffed into two suitcases and a cardboard box. My new dorm room wasn’t much — just three beds in 100 square feet, a big window, and two desks. But it wasn’t hard to feel at home. I pinned my letters to the walls and tucked old issues of zines into an orange box. My roommates and I giddily chatted to one another while getting ready to go out for the first time, our faces reflected in lit-up mirrors, our uncontrollable smiles creasing our makeup. We built a visitor wall out of sticky notes and washi tape, asking our guests to draw stick figures of themselves and pick a colour, any colour, before pasting them up on our wall. We knew it wasn’t permanent, but we loved it for what it was anyway. 

My parents kept in touch, calling me between meals and late-night study sessions. My mom texted me one day, “Good news. Call me when you can.” The phone rang twice before she picked up. I could sense the excitement in her breath before she even spoke. 

“Baba got a job. We’re moving to Hong Kong.” She whispered giddily under her breath.

“What? That’s amazing.” I replied, genuinely happy for his success. I knew he had been wanting the job for months, and they had finally reached the terms that he wanted. 

But Hong Kong is far from California, and even farther from Toronto. Everything was set into motion quickly; my dad, efficient as always. He got on a flight. Every conversation is about HK real estate. They’re selling the house.

My house. 

My house — with the ivy and the crumbling brick, the gazebo and the string lights, the light that I loved it for. 

In the past year, change has been the only constant in my life. I’m stuck in a perpetual state of motion, always reeling from the speed and longing for a chance to catch my breath. I have attempted to convince myself that if I cling tightly enough to my papers and pictures and pens, my past life won’t slip through the cracks of my fingers like water in my hands. It never works. I do it anyway. 

 I smile through my shaking breath as I sift through the photos and postcards from my hometown friends, each more emotional than the last. When I graduated from kindergarten, my parents wrote me letters to open when I turned 18. Despite my father’s insistence that he was a horrible writer, I ran my fingers over the printed text and failed to calm my breathing, his written speech reaching down my throat and tightening my chest. In its closest translation to English, it reads: 

When you are 18, you may want to live independently for the first time. Mom and Dad are not only happy with your growth but also full of worry about the challenges you will face. No matter what difficulties you encounter, remember our home will always be a harbour where you can rest.

A harbour where you can rest. For so long, I have prided myself on my efficiency, my work ethic, and my constant, unsatisfiable need for more. But now, all I want is home — a home that I can’t quite seem to place. I can see it all so clearly. I’ll stroll through my old neighbourhood, quietly observing as the U-Haul trucks unload unfamiliar furniture. A new family will occupy the house that is too big for two, dancing in its kitchen and sprawling across the wooden floorboards. Their children will laugh as they sit under the built gazebo, and I’ll hear their echo from worlds away.

 I’ll still be here. 

 It was selfish, my assumption that everything would stay right where I left it. There is nothing that can take the last 18 years from me. But I have to loosen my grip. I have to let home change. I have to carry it with me. 

It’s almost been a year since I’ve flown to California. I pull the sticky notes from the walls and pick the papers off our carpeted floor, preparing to pack my life into boxes once again. I’ll only be three blocks down — but I can’t help but get emotional. It’s a tiny, overpriced apartment for six, but it already feels like home. My roommates and I talk endlessly about our plans for the following year, demanding weekly family dinners and a leather couch that we can all fit on for the living room.

 I only have one request. I rest my head in their laps and tell them, 

“We should get a ring camera.”