Home.
That simple word encompasses so much.
I have driven a vehicle.
I have eaten Mexican food.
I have watched Star Trek: the Next Generation.
I have sat on the deck and crisped my knees in front of the chiminea.
I have fallen asleep on the porch.
I have joined a gym.
I have gotten lunch from Whole Foods.
I have consumed way too many Roasted Garlic flavor Triscuits.
I have sat at the Round Robin bar at The Willard and ordered a mohito.
I have hugged friends and told my best stories to an appreciative audience.
I have wiped away tears at the Dulles Airport arrival gate, as the three people who mean the very most to me wrapped their arms around me one by one, and presented me with a Starbucks latte.
I have not unpacked, still.
Home has settled around me, as comfortable and familiar -- and right -- as if I had never been away. Home smells the same, sounds the same. I breathe here and feel the walls settling around me, like house-shaped moleskin. The slightest variations -- a new basket on the counter -- is cataloged, logged, processed. I touch familiar things and speak, josh, joke, with the familiar people that live here. If I don't think too hard, if I don't remember to remember my other new, foreign life -- old patterns and mannerisms ride confidently to the front, pushing the Georgia-Me away as if she had never been.
I guess that's why I haven't unpacked. Georgia has nothing to do with here, with home. It was an entirely different, completely separate life, with its own set of costumes and props.
It would be very easy to fall back into place here. Already Kazbegi and Svaneti seem like something I did in a dream, or read about somewhere.
I am going back, of course. Or heading off somewhere equally not-home. As nice as here is, the eventual reality that I would have to face should I stay is abhorrent.
But man oh man, it is nice to be able to Play House for a while. (Of course, my room currently looks like it exploded, because here is the only tangible collision between Georgia and home, and the two occupying one space is like matter and anti-matter colliding.)
It's good to be here, while I can.
That simple word encompasses so much.
I have driven a vehicle.
I have eaten Mexican food.
I have watched Star Trek: the Next Generation.
I have sat on the deck and crisped my knees in front of the chiminea.
I have fallen asleep on the porch.
I have joined a gym.
I have gotten lunch from Whole Foods.
I have consumed way too many Roasted Garlic flavor Triscuits.
I have sat at the Round Robin bar at The Willard and ordered a mohito.
I have hugged friends and told my best stories to an appreciative audience.
I have wiped away tears at the Dulles Airport arrival gate, as the three people who mean the very most to me wrapped their arms around me one by one, and presented me with a Starbucks latte.
I have not unpacked, still.
Home has settled around me, as comfortable and familiar -- and right -- as if I had never been away. Home smells the same, sounds the same. I breathe here and feel the walls settling around me, like house-shaped moleskin. The slightest variations -- a new basket on the counter -- is cataloged, logged, processed. I touch familiar things and speak, josh, joke, with the familiar people that live here. If I don't think too hard, if I don't remember to remember my other new, foreign life -- old patterns and mannerisms ride confidently to the front, pushing the Georgia-Me away as if she had never been.
I guess that's why I haven't unpacked. Georgia has nothing to do with here, with home. It was an entirely different, completely separate life, with its own set of costumes and props.
It would be very easy to fall back into place here. Already Kazbegi and Svaneti seem like something I did in a dream, or read about somewhere.
I am going back, of course. Or heading off somewhere equally not-home. As nice as here is, the eventual reality that I would have to face should I stay is abhorrent.
But man oh man, it is nice to be able to Play House for a while. (Of course, my room currently looks like it exploded, because here is the only tangible collision between Georgia and home, and the two occupying one space is like matter and anti-matter colliding.)
It's good to be here, while I can.
You can always say it so perfectly.
ReplyDelete