We're a Sticky-Note

Every time I mail something to my brother, I have to look up his address. I pretty much have my mom's address down, except for the zip code, which I often confuse with my grandmother's, which, until my mom moved and got the similarly patterned zip code, was the only address in my family I had memorized.

This is a sad state of affairs.

I've mentioned before that there are five people in my nuclear family: my mom, my brother, me, my grandmother and my dad. As a family, we lived in four different houses in three different states. Today, we live in four different cities and three different states. My brother and I have moved so much for work and school that we bought my mom a three-faced clock to keep track of the different time zones we live in.

Tiffany and her sister, too, have moved several times in the last few years. By my count, they've hit six cities in six years. The last time Tiffany and I moved--last summer--it was only a few blocks down the street. Still, a move is a move is a move: Not too long ago, Tiffany's mom mailed us a tub of chocolate chip cookies and accidentally sent them to our old address. This was tragic. But-- thank God for mail-forwarding--we received the cookies before they went stale.

When my mom came to visit last, we joked about the state of her address book, with its whited-out entries, penciled in additions and entire pages scratched out. I was sure Tiffany and I had merited a new spot in ink, but my mom shook her head.

"You and Tiffany?" she laughed. "You're a sticky-note."