When I was very young, I used to say that I wanted to grow up to be a Congresswoman from California, so that I could live and work on both coasts; to my very simple mind, it was the only way to do such an impressive and unique thing.
I fell in love with the east coast after a childhood trip to both New York and Washington, D.C. and the right side of the lower 48 has never loosened its adamantine grip on my heart. But, unlike some of my loved ones who have swtched sides, I am not happiest when I’m across from where I’m from. I wish that were the case, but as giddy as I am to live somewhere where the Smithsonian is mine for the wandering and New York is but a cab ride and Amtrak trip away, I’m haunted by homesickness far more often than I prefer to admit. If anything, I’ve made my uneasy choice because when I’m here, I miss Northern California slightly less than when that situation is reversed– but we’re talking about a 55/45 split, so it’s nowhere near an ideal situation.
Listening to Dinosaur Jr. last night certainly didn’t ameliorate the situation, but making tentative plans for a possible journey home did. I think I’ll take a few days off at the beginning of September to hug my Mother, check on my Godson, THROW AN SF MEETUP, get pedicures from people who know what they’re doing, drink plenty of Peet’s, dodge marriage queries, eat real sourdough, hold office hours, irritate my Mother and otherwise bliss out as I zip about Davis and Snob Hill in my much-missed sick civic.
I know that I’m not unique, that many of you are also far from your ‘hood, where the food is fantastic and pure love flows freely; if you care to follow a 55Friday theme, write about home, the sickness it evokes or just plain missing someone whom you love. As always, you are welcome to flash us with a story (and nothing else!) on any subject under the sun, just be thoughtful enough to leave your nanofiction below. 55 words about distance, where you grew up or the sweet thrill of “goin’ home”. Ready, steady…go.
A speedy hour’s journey ends with my walking through the front door. Appa just got home from the lab and is pouring wine. “Do you vant vine?,” he asks. Amma is at the stove, cooking up the rice and warming the potato curry and sambar. “Are you hungry?,” she asks. “I’m starving.” I’m also home.
Home – where IÂ’m always a girl of 7. The solution to all my worldly troubles. The band-aid that heals all my wounds. My fountain of youth. My oasis. My Gatorade. My chicken soup for the soul. My ocean of infinite love. Home –a few too many thousand miles away.
The view outside the muslin screens has kept changing. Dusty desert streets, busy city thoroughfares, shaded suburban nooks. But it’s still home inside.
Familiar bedspreads and rugs. Old books on the new nightstand. Darjeeling tea and Marie-biscuits at eight in those little china cups from New Market. Ma and Baba.
Some things will still be permanent.
Oops!!!For some reason…I thought it was 50 words! Dammit! I wasted 5! Obviously i dont understand what 55 in the 55Friday means.
“You know I’d move anywhere if I could but there’s only one city in the world where a guy like me can work.”
“But it’s in a Red State! I can’t move there. There is just no way I can call that home.”
He ended up living in a Red State with his blue heart.
Incognito- you are sooo not incognito. Anna – I too have bicoastal political ambitions, though, mine is So Cal more than Nor Cal. I feel you…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I awoke, defeated, staring at popcorn ceilings and glow-in-the-dark stars.
Was that a dream? The moving cross country for a boy I loved? Then finding her stuff in our apartment a week later? The confrontation, tears, betrayal? Flying homehome last night jaded, broken, and now, lying in my childhood bed?
HomehomeÂ… At least, thereÂ’s that.
The Cereal Killer of the peoples sitting in deep contemplation. Many days passing without a kill; there is too much competition in the city. Too many crazy freaks making killings daily. Very tough to find new victim. In the village, the peoples is innocent and easy victims, also, no competition there. Cerial Killer missing home.
Ah! Cereal killer you make me chuckle every time…
The long journey Home was finally completed. Decades, lifetimes, incomparable to the infinity which awaited him ahead. Liberation, the final release, the ultimate symphony, the blessing and joy of the Reality beyond reality.
Come back thou to thy Lord, well pleased, and well-pleasing unto Him. Enter thou, then, among My devotees. Enter thou My Paradise…..
The headache wasn’t getting better and neither was my day. Damn. I gave up on finding my keys and sat on the stairs to answer the phone. “Hi Mummy” “Sleepy! I’ve been calling all day, I was so worried. You sound tired. Did you eat dinner? Tell me what you ate.” I was home, finally.
Jai – I recognize the Sura! 🙂
Your old room is where you left your dreams, your youth, and when it shoots it will aim for your fallacies, your dreams, your youth. Every time you return to your home, you are reduced to your origins as you approach your end.
Home is where the Sartre is.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, still unable to believe that he could have been that stupid.
“But Morpheus, I thought I was somewhere else!“…”I shouldn’t have rm ‘ed with an f *”
He shuddered at the excuses. How lame they sounded, He thought. He was the one, godamit!
Palms sweating, he typed pwd, dreading what he was going to find. The answer confirmed his worst fears.
/home/neo ,it was.
Home is where the food is. A feast is suddenly sprawled out. But Ma IÂ’m not hungry. Oh, but I am. For conversation? or not? It donÂ’t matter. Unburdened and then further burdened. WhatÂ’s wrong? WhatÂ’s good? When are you going to do this, that? Where thereÂ’s food, thereÂ’s family. I should go there more.
The pilot announces that we’re about to touch down and I close my eyes, thankful that we’ve made it. I don’t take anything for granted anymore. Minutes later, a jolt and a slight bounce: I can’t remember when I last experienced a smooth landing. No matter. I hit “power” on my mobile.
“Mummy? I’m home.”
“Hi Monay…I’m 10 minutes away.”
“That’s okay…I’m still on the plane. And I have to get my bags.”
“Call me when you’re outside—you know I don’t like to talk on phone and drive…”
“’kay, Ma.”
“I’ll be circling.”
“I know. I love you.”
She pauses, smiles.
“I love YOU. I’m happy you are home, monay.”
Badmash,
I remembered it from an episode of an old Zee TV travel series called Namaste India — the episode concerned was about Agra and the actor (and host) Aly Khan quoted that verse because it’s inscribed on the Taj Mahal (in Arabic, of course). I always found it to be a very poignant piece of writing, and obviously adds another dimension to the mausoleum itself, as I’d previously had no idea what the Arabic calligraphy on the building actually meant in terms of its English translation.
I put down the book in aggravation, having remembered too late the feeling of seeing tube lights against a pale blue wall and hearing their buzz. Why had it taken hundreds of pages to conjure a memory? Summertime is a bitch.
Starry Skies and Teary Eyes Eight years ago, homesick, I went out to look at the stars believing that they could connect me to the home I left behind. Finding none, I cried my eyes out.
When I told him that story, he promised to take me to see the stars one day. Sometimes home really is where the heart is.
One of my new requirements for a prospective wife is she needs to know what adamantium is. thats awesome…
I disagree. You CAN go back home.
Saurav- I put down the book in aggravation, having remembered too late the feeling of seeing tube lights against a pale blue wall and hearing their buzz. Why had it taken hundreds of pages to conjure a memory? Summertime is a bitch.
explain,pls.
chakding–I just finished reading English, August and it was only the last pages of the book that I realized that I had failed to absorb any of the imagery on an emotional and personal level. I attributed this to the flightiness of summertime and its related activities 😉
A relevant fact is that I used to spend every other summer in Calcutta growing up and I often conflate summertime/India/stresslessness/”home” (in the sense of a feeling of safety and relaxation as well as a feeling of being welcomed back to where you think you ought to belong).
Thanks for asking!
saurav: 😉
He walked by old monuments of a lifetime ago – places where they laughed and where they loved. These places seemed so hollow now, like frames without the pictures to fill them.
It didnÂ’t feel like home.
How ironic it was that he would feel that way. It wasnÂ’t him who was the one to leave.
I’m not sure whether to ask whether I’m being yelled at for writing prose so bad that it came off as farce or whether I’m being yelled at for offering an explanation or some other reason that I can’t figure out, but I suppose the explanation would be even more demeaning than the (accidental) insult 🙂
you’re not being yelled at, brother. winked at, perhaps.
uh, I fixed your comment for you.
remember? you used the wrong name? i replaced it with your own and deleted the dupe which explained all that, that’s why i winked.
how can an emoticon, especially THAT emoticon represent “yelling”? that’s an awful lot of work, to find an insult (accidental or not) where the intention was more affectionate than anything else. no wonder they told us to never edit comments. >:(
I left home yesterday to get home to my parents 10,000 miles away.
Two months from now, I fly to a new one.
Sometimes, I still miss the one I shared with five roommates.
Someday he and I will have our own.
Three continents, four countries, 10 homes, 10 years – perhaps home travels with me.
My own relationship with home is a little twisted and so is my entry.
––-*-
As he checked into his hotel room in Patna, his cell-phone rang.
“It has been a year since I saw you last” his mother complained. “When will you come home?”
“I don’t know” he answered. “Work’s difficult. I travel all the time.”
“Don’t you ever come to Patna on work?”
“Not really, Mumma”, he lied.
––-*-