Home

in 2015, after a terrible incident with our neighbors and basically being bullied, we, on a whim decided to sell our first house. It was less my decision than his. I loved that home more than him. I loved that home, more than he did. I always felt it was more mine than his. the neighborhood, the streets, the rooms smelled more me, than him. I still cry for things I had to leave behind, like memories of a happier me, a more loyal me, a less meaner me- and of course the crazy magnolia tree, I feel like the world was sunnier then, my boy was happier then, closer to me then, everything was easier, sweeter then. I couldn’t stop anything, change anything. So I made the best of the situation and built a room I would be okay in and then I wrote this.

Free to follow my passions and purse my dreams and go wherever I please and keep flying… Truth? I have been chased out more than I have been chasing anything.

Others have it worse, of course. Those running from being hurt, rights impeached, robbed of choice, forced to act against their will- robbed of free will and freedom. And my heart breaks for them. My heart breaks for me too.

See you’d have to stay and suffer the consequences for your actions and choices. But me? I always leave. I never stay, so I never reap benefits, I never have to see anything through. My flowers never bear fruits. My trees don’t shade me. Too many fresh starts and potted plants.

You’d have obligations. You have strings that pull you. I do too, just that those strings don’t cocoon me. I never go home. I never miss home. I never let myself miss home.

I have always prided myself on the fact that I am not bound anywhere. I can quit any job, move to any city, leave anyone- anyone but baby now. I have outwardly prided myself on my ability to let go, painlessly. But the truth is I never do. And the truth is it hurts like hell.

I give away things easily but I don’t throw anything away.

I make the most impulsive decisions but rarely are they unplanned. I’ve prided myself on being a professional traveler, a global citizen but the truth is I never travel, because I don’t have a home. I simply float.

You have people waiting by a landline somewhere don’t they? People waiting for you on holidays? People waiting for you back home? I don’t remember returning home to a family waiting for me.

You might romanticize my way of life and I hope to invoke jealousy. You might even envy the supposed flexibility, but sometimes I yearn for that sense of forever. The sense of a go-to. Maybe I wouldn’t mind a little binding, a little bonding.

I form new bonds fast, I assimilate effortlessly. But I have no old friends left. I have no traditions to fall back on. I don’t have a village. I cling to my languages, but words evade me. Mostly because I have no one left who’d listen. You see, the last of my 3 childhood angels died last Saturday.

Also, I am moving again. Mostly, because I can.

What could have been my own, never owned me. So leaving was left as the only easy option- maybe even the only one. Every. Single. Time.

See, I tried to root myself. I nested, I birthed but now baby and all, I have to go. Again. Go find another seat to warm.
Is it still an empty nest when you’re the one leaving it?
It’s not leaving that hurts, it’s knowing you’ll have to do it all over again, where you’re going next. My home will never be my home. It is an investment.
My will is also never truly free.
Chasing and escaping make up my circle.

I hope that cycle breaks for baby.
For him and him- let peace coexist with the want for more, higher, better. Let “here” and “now” trump “elsewhere”, “anytime”. Let him always have a home to go to. Let me always be their home.