It struck me this evening, whilst wandering half-lit into my kitchen, how very much this place feels like home. I was surprised really, at the feeling of ease and comfort. I don’t get this feeling often. I am notoriously, sadistically and irrationally move-y. Perhaps in a past life, I was Mongolian, and roamed the deserts with my horses and yurt. I just like to move around, not put down roots deep enough that may imped my inevitable escape. I don’t know why I’m this way. I just get this deep-seated urge to pack up my shit and find a new place.
So, standing in my kitchen, I was surprised to find that tonight, more than any other night, even after flying across the Pacific Ocean, over 6000 miles and back, how very much this place feels like I belong here, like this is my home. I am comfortable here.
Perhaps it was the weekend away, in one of my most favorite places–Boston. Maybe it’s having to deal with the overwhelming regret that roundhouse kicks me in the face whenever I go there. But I handled it. You have to play the cards you are dealt. There’s no Boston card up my sleeve anymore.
Even still, perhaps it was being able to see many, many of my friends and my sister and realizing that we, all of us, we’re all going to be all right–Nickolas in his little apartment and his quest from the mailroom, Dani and her babies in her little house, Puls with her big dreams and free trip to BA, my sister in her apartment with Philip and her dog, suddenly adult, Okra and her very tall adventure, me in my holding pattern in my apartment, living my life–we’re all going to be just fine.
Good night.
