Close your eyes tightly. Now think of ‘home’. Chances are that one distinct image rushes to your mind. For me, the idea of ‘home’ will forever be torn between two very different places. There is 'the home that chose me', and then there is 'the home that I chose'.
It’s strange how our memories consolidate with time. When I think of my grandmother, I think of her perfectly manicured, blood red fingernails. I think of picking strawberries that matched those nails, in her garden, on a warm summers’ evening. I remember her sundress rippling in the breeze as I clutched tightly to her steadying hand.
My memories of my childhood and of 'the home that chose me' are of waves on a clear blue lake, endless expanses of prairie that melt into the skyline, the shrill cries of tornado sirens, and my father’s classic toy car collection. I can still taste my mother’s pancakes and apple cider, can still hear the sound of my fingers descending on the keys of my piano, and can still feel that first, perfect kiss with the first, perfect boy I ever loved. I will always remember the feeling of the wind whipping through my hair as I sped down the highway in my blue Honda Accord (the one with the ‘Free Tibet’ bumper sticker that garnered more than a few curious looks).
My memories of 'the home that I chose' are no less precise. They include taxicab headlights glistening through the rain at Astor Place, Bryant Park covered by a blanket of fresh snow, Grand Central Station brimming with tension at rush hour, and the massive foyer in our apartment with its smooth wooden floors. I can still taste my favourite Venti-Earl Grey-Soy-Tea Misto with two unrefined cane sugars, can still hear the sound of fireworks over the East River on the Fourth of July, and can still feel that first, perfect kiss with the perfect man I married. I will always remember the feeling of sinking into our beige, down-filled sofa with geometrically patterned pillows (the one that cost well over a month’s salary and took even longer to pay off).
It’s strange how our memories consolidate with time. When I think of my grandmother, I think of her perfectly manicured, blood red fingernails. I think of picking strawberries that matched those nails, in her garden, on a warm summers’ evening. I remember her sundress rippling in the breeze as I clutched tightly to her steadying hand.
My memories of my childhood and of 'the home that chose me' are of waves on a clear blue lake, endless expanses of prairie that melt into the skyline, the shrill cries of tornado sirens, and my father’s classic toy car collection. I can still taste my mother’s pancakes and apple cider, can still hear the sound of my fingers descending on the keys of my piano, and can still feel that first, perfect kiss with the first, perfect boy I ever loved. I will always remember the feeling of the wind whipping through my hair as I sped down the highway in my blue Honda Accord (the one with the ‘Free Tibet’ bumper sticker that garnered more than a few curious looks).
My memories of 'the home that I chose' are no less precise. They include taxicab headlights glistening through the rain at Astor Place, Bryant Park covered by a blanket of fresh snow, Grand Central Station brimming with tension at rush hour, and the massive foyer in our apartment with its smooth wooden floors. I can still taste my favourite Venti-Earl Grey-Soy-Tea Misto with two unrefined cane sugars, can still hear the sound of fireworks over the East River on the Fourth of July, and can still feel that first, perfect kiss with the perfect man I married. I will always remember the feeling of sinking into our beige, down-filled sofa with geometrically patterned pillows (the one that cost well over a month’s salary and took even longer to pay off).
Seriously. . . I loved that sofa.So why the sudden burst of nostalgia? A few weeks ago, I was speaking with a work colleague about New York. Unable to contain my excitement that he would soon be visiting 'the home that I chose', I stuttered inarticulately ‘you should really, really go to . . . uh . . . um... oh god, what was it called? It was on 6th… or was it 16th…?’ Disastrous, just 100%.
I never did remember either the name or the location of my mystery suggestion. Thinking back, I’m not even sure what I was trying to recommend. Was it a restaurant, perhaps, or a vintage clothing store? The fact is, I will never know at this rate. It's gone. Details that only 18 months ago were as real to me as my shoe size have now, inexplicably, disappeared from my mind. Memories from my childhood are even vaguer. They come in brief streaks of colour, sporadic flashes of true sensory overload. I remember my grandmother's nails, but not the sound of her voice. I am losing myself somehow, losing my history, and it completely terrifies me. I feel like an intruder in someone else's life, with a past that I can recite the details of but which I cannot personally recall.
For the first time in recent memory, I am desperately, nauseatingly homesick. Or at least I would be, if I could remember 'home' at all. So I must try harder. I must close my eyes more regularly and think of my 'homes'.
