Our new house smells like varnish and
balsam needles and mothballs.
The floors are all wood, except the kitchen and the bathrooms,
which are linoleum,
and they creak when I walk around in my socks—
which I can’t do for long
because it’s so cold that my scalp tightens.
Halfway up the stairs is a stained-glass window
with a picture of flowers and butterflies in a garden,
like spring.
Papa opens the cellar door and flips the light switch.
I peer down the dark, dusty staircase.
And in the kitchen sink are the bowl and spoon Papa used for his cornflakes this morning.
He shows Mama the cinnamon-colored dishwasher built under the counter
and the garbage disposal built into the sink.
These are firsts for Mama.
She opens the dishwasher door and pulls out the top rack.
“Hmm,” she says, and that’s all.
Papa and I look at each other.
We know we’ll find out what that means,
but it won’t be now.
“This is our room,” Papa says,
opening a door down the hall.
A big bed with a yellow comforter sits against a wall.
Papa is renting most of the furniture
because we didn’t own much in California.
Before Mama and I left Berkeley,
she shipped her tall china cupboard and her kotatsu,
the low table with a heater underneath.
“Where’s my room?” I ask.
Papa takes my hand and leads me up a steep staircase.
My room is at the top. It’s the biggest bedroom I’ve ever seen.
One side of the ceiling slopes halfway to the floor
and seats are built under the two windows.
“If you don’t like it, you can trade with us,” Papa says.
But I say no—
so fast that he can’t take this room away.
Later, Mama comes upstairs to tuck me in,
like I’m five again.
But tonight, because we’re in our new house,
in our new town, on the other side of the country,
I want her to.
She sits for a few minutes on my bed,
as if she needs to as much as I
need her to.
Papa has had a week to get used to this new house,
and Mama and I will catch up.
She kisses me good night and tucks the comforter
all the way around my chin
and goes downstairs. The light glows up the stairs,
stretching her shadow on the wall.
The sky outside is soft pink, and I smile into my comforter.
It is like the soft pink is inside me, resting,
breathing with me.
Is this house making me feel this way,
or the snow outside? Or knowing our long trip is over?
Or having a big bedroom upstairs
but hearing Mama and Papa downstairs,
and we’re a family again after four months?
That’s it—
all the good things have come together
in soft pink
happiness.