A week ago I left New York to spend some time at home. Or did I leave my home to come and visit my past? Or is the past my home?
Why does the “H” word inevitably flood us with questions?
A couple of nights after I flew into Mississippi a friend of mine sent me a message asking me if I “was home yet.” As I was writing my reply I got hung up on the semantics, more specifically, the “H” word. I replied with, “that’s a loaded question, but yes I’m…” and then I halted. I typed the H expecting to follow with O-M-E, but when it came to typing out the word I couldn’t. Instead, I wrote the word “here.” I’m here, but is “here” the same as “home?” More questions…
It reminds me of that other question, the one we were all asked at one point during the past few weeks, the kick-off point, “Where do you come from?” It makes me angry because I don’t know, and I’m so tired of looking for it. It seems to be a classically American sentiment, the not knowing, and along with everyone else I too just want to get there already. I want to be able to answer the questions rather than them lead to even more.
I, after three years in New York, made it back to the place I grew up, and the place where my family still lives, but I still couldn’t call this place home in a simple message. And I realized, despite everything, that I still haven’t made it home. So how do you know when you’ve finally made it home? Is it a gut feeling, or a connection? Does it have to be more than just a place? Or does it have to be a place at all? When, after the incessant wayward searching, can one finally stop asking questions?
