With us, we took the dog, some food, my old teddies, the piano. That was a hard one, organising transport for my piano, beautiful, pre-World War II, sepia toned natural grain, dusty keys with yellowing, oily centers. A leather stool flaking at the edges – inside the stool, I used to keep my coloured pencils, then, the shot glasses and stolen bottles of vodka.
We left on Easter Sunday for a new life, to be reborn. He was gone, visiting family. I had to ‘work’ and mum had to ‘drive me’. But really, we had to pack up our years of belongings into our cars and haul everything out. We had a few hours to do it. And we did.
She sent him a text a couple of hours later, telling him we were gone, and not to come looking. “We are all safe”, and we were, finally.
My name means resurrection, Anastasia. I was born on the eve of Good Friday, and I am constantly resurrecting myself, my being, my identity, I cannot be stagnant for too long, something needs to change, something to keep me on my toes, to test my self and my relationships and my stability.
It hurts, this testing, but it is inherent, in-built with the meaning of a name I did not choose. Like Desdemona, I am ‘doomed’ by this patriarchal invasion of selfhood, the naming process. I must leave, I must move forward, always forward, with the outermost parts of myself dissolving as I push and splash and urge through these treacherous waters. Nothing can go wrong if I am moving forwards.
Forwards, towards this: “We are all safe”, and we were, finally.
