Playing with the idea of home these days, folding it between my fingers while I drink all the coffee. It’s the season, it’s the climate, it’s the whole thing all wrapped up into whatever this time of year is supposed to mean. I feel myself split between time and people and places right now. Can you ever really go home? And if you do try, do you find yourself in places you used to share with someone else? What can we do with the dichotomy of home never being truly new, and yet also feeling like a very foreign place? Street corners and breakfast spots are filled with ghosts real and imagined.
A year and half after moving for the third major time in my life, I feel myself calling new spaces home. California is both familiar and far away, even when I am here. Idaho seems imagined now that I am gone. And Minneapolis, a different lifetime entirely that for the most part exists only in my fiction and for funerals.
But now there is something new. My physical space is shifting and adopting new qualities and new coordinates. I have been starting to wonder, if I am without a true place to call home. I sometimes feel homesick everywhere, anywhere, in the very places I am supposed to feel home.
The only place I feel truly at peace is tucked inside his arms, half asleep in the afternoon. I know this isn’t necessarily a new concept, that someone can feel like home. It’s kind of adorable and a bit sentimental for my taste, but can it be? Can my true home live only with this one person? And if we were to wander without end, together, would I then always already be home no matter where I actually am?