You think home is the view of water, and the three steps down, and those plans to be approved by council. It’s the fence of white little spears, and the manicured lawn that doesn’t stain your knees, and you’ll pass it all on one day, this version of home, the same way you inherited it from your dad and his dad before him. You are natives of this land, and home to you is a fortress that is at risk from natural disasters like me. It could ignite on a scorching day, or the earth could shift and break apart one 3am to reveal all the dirt hidden under that carefully managed lawn.
(I crawled on my belly through that grass once, just to get to you. I know that domesticity can be a minefield).
Because home for me? Well darling I’ve crossed the globe, I’ve taken trips with your ghost in my suitcase for years, and every time I cross borders, or enter new oceans I am reminded that there is no place like you.
Your body is my hearth. My homecoming is announced in the knock-knocking at your hotel door, and how I get to launch in to your arms on the other side. Home is the broken bone I can still feel under your skin, the grooves of life changing course felt under my fingers. Home is your funny, flat front teeth and my hands under your shirt, and the way your eyes go to my shoulders before you slip my straps down. Home is one headphone each, and the way you drop your bottom lip when you kiss me. Home is your nervous laugh and your slight tremble on the surface cause the seismic waves are deep, deep down. Home is the following each other from room to room, and that place I fit under your arm when you are sleeping – and I am wide awake.
Home is this, and you. You are the only home I’ve ever wanted. I click my heels every day and the truth is this:
You are the point I was always oriented toward, and the place I am always trying to get back to.
There is no place like you.
Eidyia’s Note: I first published this earnest, flawed piece two years ago. Found it today when I went looking for some other version of home to share. There is no place like you. Ain’t that the truth, people. Even when you leave home for good – some part of you imagines that knock-knocking at the door …