“So where are you from?” She asked.
I almost smiled, hiding the fact I knew that question was going to come up soon. It always happens. You talk about all the things in the world; politics, music, Sinatra, literature, art, paintings and food. Then, when you’re comfortable with them, they pop the question up. “Where are you from?” “You never talk about home?”
I continued writing the sentence I was writing and without looking up said, “That’s a good question. I’m still trying to find the answer to it!”
I have never been able to find a proper definition of the word ‘home’.
“What does that mean?” She asked, confused!
I don’t know, yet again, how to answer that. Is home the place where I spent the sixteen out of twenty two years of my life, is it the place where I shared my mother’s last moments with her or is it the place where I’ve been living with my Dad for the past two and a half years? Is it one of those three?
The most genuine answer to that question would be, my mother’s grave. That’s the only place in the whole wide world where I don’t feel like I’m a burden on someone. It feels like I belong there. Being there is the only time when I can never contain my emotions and break into tears and not feel bad about it. Where I’m in my weakest, most vulnerable and most raw form. Where despite my break-out, I won’t be judged. I don’t feel as secure, at peace, protected and calm anywhere as much as I do there. Like that exactly is where I’m supposed to be.
“Don’t you feel alone? With just your Dad at home?”
The only other home for me is Dad himself. I had not imagined getting as close to him as I’ve gotten during the past seven years! The earning head of the family. The man who thought he was not to let his daughter get too close to him. He changed, and boy did he change. He has got to be the more caring and devoted father I see now or I’ve seen ever. Every day, for the past eight years. I don’t think it could get any closer than that. I don’t think I can bring another human being to that level of closeness. I don’t believe anybody can be as home to me, as he is.
In summary, I could never identify ‘home’ to be a four-walled enclosure. It’s something else. It’s something within you that makes something home. This ‘something’ could be a person, a person’s grave, a feeling or an object – anything! Anything that makes you feel complete in your essence.
Having said that – nothing else could be a permanent home for me.
Call me crazy.
Call me wind,
Call me mad.
Call me a gypsy soul,
Call me a nomad!