the concept of home
how do you make a house a home?
when i moved to san francisco, i would avoid calling my apartment home. this wasn't home. this was temporary. i was just passing through, rolling over like fog over the hills.
"i'm going back to my place" "let's meet at my apartment". never "i can't wait to go home". that phrase was reserved for my actual home, 4,213 kilometres east, sitting on the corner of a crescent.
outside that home, the moon and stars hung, shining directly above the rooftop, watching over us. eerily quiet, the way only a suburb could be. inside however, there wasn't a sound you couldn't hear. the tea kettle going off. the tv always on, especially on thursdays, with the sound of hadees-e-kisa wafting through the halls. doors opening, slamming. yelling, then laughter, whispers into the phone and more yelling.
the morning after my first night in san francisco, the first thing i felt was the sun shining brightly through the window. the second thing was silence.
after 3 months and 14 days in sf, i went back to the house at the end of a crescent. my home that i spent weeks longing for. my home who's title i refused to give to anything else. my home felt like a house. my body felt like a visitor, temporarily trapped between two places. every step i was taking here, i imagined myself taking 2,622 miles west.
when i got off my flight, the customs officer asked "where's your home? here or in san francisco"? i shrugged, gave her a sheepish smile "both?". she laughed and stamped my passport.
how do you make a house a home? by surrendering yourself to it. you make multiple. each to carry a different part of you. each to hold another version of your body.
i'll see you at home.