“This
is home,” my friend says to me. “This is home.”
Struck
by the feeling in her words, I look out at the sunset that we’re watching
together on the roof patio above her house which serves as the porch to my
little separate apartment and temporary residence for the next three months. Orange
rays beam up from below the mountainous horizon to complement the blue of the
darkening Mexican sky. A fan of light. Below that, the mountains slip into a deeper
shade of dress. A dog barks. A vehicle, its PA system announcing the selling of
something, Churros? Paletas? Jugo? begins its street by street roaming. “That’ll
go on for the next twenty minutes,” my friend says. We’re sharing a bottle of
wine which she’s said she’s saved for a special occasion. Sunset is a special occasion.
Cheers, salud, prost, I’ll go for that.
I
take a sip. It’s a good wine. Something red. Something dry.
Leaned
up against the roof wall, I gaze down at the brick and tin of the homes crammed
in next to each other behind the wall of her property, at the green, white, and
red flag that flies from the top of a house just beyond those, at the lights
that bespeak of the residences built along the foothills and up the incline of
the not-so-far-off mountains, at the trees that fill in the empty spaces, at
the telephone lines that crisscross my view. It’s been a long time since I’ve
called a place home. Flitting about the world, barely letting my feet touch ground
as I go, I haven’t wanted to.
Every
now and again, there have been places that felt homelike or homey. There have
been places that I loved. There have been places to which I would return. There’s
even the place where I grew up and where a good portion of my family still lives
that is easily called home; a place to go back to and then take leave of again.
But
home, Home, that place I wouldn’t want to ever leave for long, that place that would
draw me back to it when I had the temerity to venture off, that place where I
would stick my feet down like roots into rich dirt to stay in forever? That place
I haven’t had for a long time.
And
when my friend says, “This is home,” I realize I don’t want that for a long
long time either. Not yet. If ever.
What
is this spirit of non-attachment?
Is
it just the feeling that wherever I am is home?
That
the world is waiting and there’s so much to see?
That
belonging is more than a sense of place?
For
now, it doesn’t really matter if I can’t answer all my own questions.
The
wind blows my hair across my face. The stars begin to blink into view. My
friend adds some wine to my glass and to hers. We sit with our words on the
tips of our tongues and let them out as we see fit. Drinking our wine, spilling
out our conversation.
When
they’ve played all they can on their own, my friend’s children venture up to
where we are and fill the patio with their chatter, presence, and questions. We
look upwards and piece together the constellations and planets, spinning on our
toes from compass point to compass point. “That’s Jupiter. That’s Antares. That’s
Scorpio. That’s Cassiopeia. That’s the Big Dipper.”
It’s
a school night and soon enough, before they want to, they go downstairs to get their
lunches packed and to get ready for bed.
Left
alone, with the stars to still keep me company, I look around again. Home? A
pack of dogs sound out in their first howling of the night. The roosters are
quiet; long ago tucked in to roost. No, not a home with a capital H. But,
nevertheless, it’s a place where I can practice spontaneity, be open to fresh
ideas, meet new people, participate in the strangeness of human community, and
stretch myself beyond my own hermetic habits. Not home for me, and yet, for my
friend, this place is both her home and Home and for a short time I can share
it with her.
That’s
enough. That’s enough for now.
