I don't remember addresses. I remember light. Every house we lived in remained not just walls, but a feeling—the morning air, the sound of footsteps on the floor, the view from the window that eventually became familiar. Some houses were temporary, but they felt more secure than permanent ones. It was easy to breathe in them. Easy to be silent. Easy to be yourself—without the role of a guest. We arrived briefly, and when we left, it was as if we had to leave something behind.