wrestling with longing

the elusive quest for Home

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Sometimes, the longing of home keeps us awake at night.

My childhood home often feels split in half–—torn by the duality of needing a place to come from while also flinching at the thought of the person I was there… and the person I was expected to be. 

A large portion of my life has been spent in search of this illusionary concept of ‘home’; looking for it in lovers, friendships, even physical spaces as I continually pack my bags, unable to settle.

Recently, during a meditation, I was asked to revisit physical spaces that felt safe. After several moments of blank space, old memories began shifting into view.

How easily we forget the details.

On my worst nights, I lay in bed, tossing the textured duvet cover over my head like a little kid, hiding from the monsters. I squeeze my eyes shut and begin at the front door of these safe spaces; walking through, inch my inch, filling in the memory gaps. Sometimes I trace the hallways like maps, with my fingers in the air, taking my time to revisit the hallways and living rooms that kept me safe.. in what feels like a life I have lived centuries ago. The first few retraces are blurry: details missing and gaps of rooms or backyards or sink styles. But the more I visited, the more these places came alive in my mind all over again. I began to fill the walls with paint colors and specific wall paper, the dish towel patterns I used to wipe my hands on or the smell of my best friend’s vanilla perfume trailing through her upstairs hallway. 

I remove the blanket from my headspace and open my computer, the bright light seeming to suck all of the space and energy from the pitch black room. I type in my grandparent’s address in Binghamton New York. I want to remember what the front porch looks like, to help me visualize stepping beyond the barrier of the three-windowed door with the ancient lock, to remember the smell of my grandmother’s perfume and the way the blue carpet felt on my toes. I want to know what the new owners have since done with it, if they’ve ripped up my grandfather’s flower beds along the side of the house, or repainted the paint chipping on the garage out back, the place where we kept our favorite wiffle ball bats and sidewalk chalk. Have they gutted the tiny kitchen my grandmother cooked holiday meals in? Removing any and all traces that my grandparents’ love ever existed at all. 

Instead of witnessing the carnage of the passing of time— the image that stands before me is 15 years old, taken when my grandfather and grandmother were both still alive. The flowerbeds are blooming so it must be summer, the camera capturing their flag out front and the favorite sign made by their grandkids hanging from the front door. Their gold car sits in the driveway, the pavement looks new and fresh from when they finally chose to pave it the summer I turned 13. Suddenly I feel the urge to pack up the car with luna and my paints, drive 24 hours straight until I pull into the quiet little driveaway in upstate new york. I’ll get out and remember the excitement that filled my belly as a little kid, unbuckling my seatbelt before we even pulled in the driveway to ensure I could swing open the van’s back door and run up the three little stairs onto the porch, where I knew they would both be waiting for me.

Looking at this photo made me feel like they still were. Sam, why haven’t you called or stopped by? It’s just been so long. 

I’ll tell them that I’ve missed them and I’m sorry I didn’t visit more in the summers, that I made a mistake and actually didn’t outgrow the playground around the corner. I’ll ask my grandmother for her fudge recipes, if I could help mow the lawn one more time on my grandfather’s lap and not complain about the sound, or sit down patiently to help him set up the big train around the Christmas tree. I would be less annoyed about the two hour car ride with my noisy brother and sister, learning to just put on my headphones and spend more time being there…. to spend time being your granddaughter.  

I look at the zillow photo and know my grandparents are still alive when it was taken, my grandfather watching the Syracuse football game while my grandmother bakes a delicious meal or water the plants on the porch– as if existing happily still in some alternate universe, where death is irrelevant and we did not bury them next to one another in the cemetery 8 miles away. Still, I stare at it until I eventually drift into a restless sleep, hoping that I’ll see the door crack open and my grandpa eagerly wave me inside, forever peaking through the window of that front porch, just to see if I’ve come home.