i know. by now, you’re sick of me questioning where ‘home’ is. dude, so am i. SICK. OF IT.
yet, i continue asking myself that very question. what’s home? where is home?
i never thought i’d miss the ‘Bu. i mean, i didn’t hate my time there. i came to love the people i met. but miss Malibu? or L.A? i really didn’t like either city. all the driving, the lack of…diversity. the need to be ‘dressed’ to go anywhere. i couldn’t wait to get back to the East Coast, the familiar.
which isn’t quite so familiar anymore. i know the street names, but don’t quite recognize intersections. i drove up to my grandfather’s house, but my key didn’t work. i got to my mom’s, and no room looked quite right. i went to church, and felt like a visitor. i sent a text to a friend to say i was heading home, but then deleted the word, and said back. because it doesn’t feel like home.
no. Malibu didn’t feel like home either. if i were to say i was heading home now, it wouldn’t be Malibu. but it no longer feels like Toronto.
is this merely a need to settle, to unpack (yeah, haven’t finished that either – hey, i had to buy hangers!), to refamiliarize myself? or is it a reflection of a greater issue: i don’t know where home is.