Normality is subjective.
Well, mine is. Always has been.
Six months old, first plane flight.
First move of thirteen.
First time I met a cardboard box.
I don't remember it much.
First I remember properly, I was young.
Eight? Nine? Something like that.
Leaving Canada after two years.
The frantic hunts under the bed for all-important items mislaid in the chaos
The promises to keep in touch.
Didn't really keep them.
It was fun, at first. It was an adventure.
I'm an explorer, a pathfinder, seeing things my friends can only dream of.
Or read about in Geography.
Everyone said I was so lucky.
Everyone said they were jealous.
Everyone said it must be so wonderful.
I thought it was too, the first few times.
How many kids get to go to Australia?
To Canada? To places most people will only see on maps?
Everyone says I'm so lucky.
But how lucky?
Lucky to not be allowed to paint the house
Or keep my own bed
Or use blu-tack on a wall?
Lucky to miss the birth of my youngest cousin
So she didn't recognise me when we went to her
Lucky never to see most of my family for several years at a time
Save a postcard. Or the occasional letter.
Lucky to miss out on a solid education
And lose my friends every two years
And always know I'll keep doing it
Trust me, for all its wonders
And I don't regret it
Never will, it's part of me.
But all ye who think me charmed, please know,
The novelty soon wears off.