So where are you from?
I got that question a lot when I was in New York City a few months ago. Never really knew what to reply.
“I live in London!”
But you don't sound British?
“Yeah, I'm from Poland.”
But sometimes I'd get a different one.
“Oh”, I would think to myself, “that’s a good one”
Where is home? Is it a place? A feeling? Is it static or does it change over time? Is it an aspiration? Real or fictional? Identity or community? Both? Or just a space between walls?
I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I don’t have a good answer yet. Home is singing out loud in the car with my sister. Any car, really. Home is cooking dinner for old friends and new ones with a few bottles of wine. Home is walking in NYC and feeling that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Home is smelling my mom’s bolognese sauce simmering from another room. It’s the lake in my hometown I used to run to when I needed to breathe. Home is seeing a childhood friend for the first time in a while and knowing that even if you haven’t spoken much recently, you’ve got each other’s back. Home is music. Home is finding old family pictures in a shoebox. Hot showers and cold sheets. Home is both where you come from and what you aspire to build, it is past and future all at once.
It's a bit long, though. Maybe a bit much?
“Is there anything I can do for you dear? Is there anyone I could call?” “No and thank you, please Madam. I ain't lost, just wandering” – Adèle