“Look at this cool photo I found of Wolcott,” I told Baylee. It’s of our front porch, patriotic blue church bench with burlap pillows cornered just right, and herbs hanging to dry.
I can smell the wood of the very old porch and the mint that is drying for tea. I can also feel the warm sun coming through the glass and if I close my eyes long enough my arm’s goosebumps will welcome its rays.
“Oh, that’s pretty,” he said.
“It reminds me of home,” I told him. I followed with a quick “oops.”
“What?” he said, not noticing my Freudian slip.
“I didn’t mean to call it home,” I said. “Where’s home to you?”
“I think home is where you start your own family and have kids,” he said. Baylee has a sweet affection for Wolcott and the property it rests on.
“Then I still don’t know where my home is,” I said. “Can you have two homes?”
I remember craving North Carolina when I lived in Mass, and suffering from debilitating bouts of nostalgia for the ocean waves and the warm air. I feel that now for Mass, and especially for that house.
Maybe it’s a military thing, or maybe I’m generally indecisive, but I just don’t know what home means. Like, if I’m in a different state altogether, like California, say, what would I consider back home?
Here, in this house in NC, I am home. The comfort I feel here is deep and warm, and I feel completely invested in making this a true homestead, one with bees and crops and one that is sustainable enough to keep us supplied and fulfilled.
I’ve talked about this before and I know I will again. I feed the emotions, too, when they come, because I don’t want to let go of either one.
Am I forever displaced, or am I so fortunate to call two places home? If I decide on one of those two options, will I stop feeling confused? No. It’s not that easy. So for now, and maybe forever, I consider myself from two very special places, and that’s just the way it is.