Going Home

We are moving.  Somewhere.  Sometime in June.  We're almost done with dental school.  With this city.  And with this apartment.  This has me thoughtful.  And my emotions swirly.  Some days, I cannot wait.  Like when the cat upstairs sounds like a rhino on a rampage.  Like when the neighbor's garlic chicken invades my kitchen so strongly I can't smell what I'm cooking.  Like Mondays, when it's me against the laundry.  The girls and I drag a big granny cart basically vacuum packed with 60ish pounds of laundry, quarters, dryer balls, and detergent down the hall, ride the elevator, and down another hall.  I trap us in the laundry room and play everything I can think of until it's time to switch to the dryer and then figure out what to do while our clothes get mostly dry.  Nap? Lunch? Errands?  It seems like the laundry's always finished just when I most need to not go downstairs....Other days it makes my heart sick.  This is the home where we grew into the family.  And I love it.  This is where my babies came home from the hospital.  This is where I found sweet friendships.  This is where I learned to cry again.  This is where I learned to fly.  This is where we all began to grow up.  Together.  As a unit.  Sometimes, I'm perfectly calm about it.  Moving on is simply a matter of finding a new place to fall in love.  Sometimes I think I'm crazy.  Sometimes, I feel like I'm lucky; like I'm kind of homeless in the best way possible.  Where ever I we go, home will be there.  It's like this: 

I was sitting in a cafe in Utah a few weeks ago.  The decor was moose.  Bear.  Horses.  Mountain, ranch motif.  Beautiful wood booths.  Rawhide chairs.  Clear finishes.  Snow piled outside.  Twinkle lights waiting to shine on the roof.  A wild place mellowed.  George Strait was singing in the background.  I was eating a Hawaiian burger.  I was home.

Driving home from Park City forever ago.  Alone in my green Saturn.  Collective Soul.  Windburned.  Tired.  Satisfied.  Sun on white peaks.  The backside of the mountain that greeted me, framed by my window, every morning.  White.  Yellow.  Warm.  Happy.  I was home.

I went running off the National Mall in D.C.   I came upon an old, forgotten WWII memorial.  Stone pillars gently swallowed by moss and ivy.  Inscriptions in the rock.  It was quiet.  Reverent.  Like a ruin.  Like a prayer.  Just me and the soul of that moment.  I was grateful.  I was home.

At a mountain resort in Costa Rica.  I had pancakes, plantains, and warm black beans for breakfast.  I sat on the edge the mountain and sketched.  Deep red.  Lacy green canopy.  Blue sky.  Black mountain.  I heard monkeys in the trees behind me.  Butterflies.  Birds.  Lizards.  Everything different; smaller, bigger, brighter, more delicate.  I was in another world.  I was home. 

Endless afternoons on Oahu.  North Shore.  Waimea.  Sharks Cove.  We paddled to goat island.  Coral under my feet.  Seven shades of blue.  Many shades of green.  Foam.  Waves crashing, exploding into walls of white.  Breathing.  Deeply.  With my eyes closed.  Mist generously raining down on me.  Softly though, like pixy dust.  Like kisses blown from far away.  I was home.

I was snuggled on our cozy red love sac.  Christmas lights glowing.  Girls sleeping in the next room.  Snow falling softly outside.  My honey was on his way.  The world felt like velvet.  Content wrapped around me, held me close.  I was home.

The fog curling outside.  The rungs of the balcony dripping.  Blueberry coffeecake baking.  Warm.  Sweet.  Heavy.  Curly in her nightgown.  Sweet Blue too.  She was nearly bald then.  And very new.  I was home.

In the city.  A playground.  An old stone church.  A necklace of greenspaces dropping yellow leaves across the paths between the concrete aisles. Eating a PB and J on whole-wheat.  Talking movies, literature, travel with a friend.  Picking my children out of the tiny crowd.  I was home.


In the North End.  Eating the perfect meal.  Roasted beets, potatoes, grilled salmon, white wine sauce.  Perfection.  Sweetheart across from me, amused by the way I'm shamelessly eavesdropping on our table neighbors.  People watching out the window.  White boxes tied with string.  Kids. Tourists. Just people.  Walking down cobblestone.  Exploring again.  I was home.

Spring air.  Fresh.  I smell pink magnolia blossoms on graceful branches, sunny daffodils.  I smell green.  Wet wood cushions every scent.  Soft breeze.  Open windows.  I am home.