home is perspective
My friends,
I did exactly what I knew I was going to do. Say that there wouldn’t be a newsletter this week to alleviate the pressure of writing one. And then once that pressure was gone, a letter to you started to form in my head. Which, in a way, can be concerning - but I will take it as a sign that I (or you) needed to hear this message. And maybe I just needed to write it.
I’m sitting on my friend’s sofa in Rome. There’s a glass of white wine beside me. I love when white wine tastes like water. There’s two types of white wine in this world (lol actually there’s a million but there’s two in my mind) - one that’s almost too easily drinkable, and the other kind that isn’t. And I wish I could tell you which type I’m drinking, but the label is in Italian and I will not be able to translate it. All I can tell is that it is organic, and that it’s from Sicily, so.
There are so many things I want to tell you about the past few weeks. I want to tell you that I went on a cute date, I want to tell you that I almost got myself into a love triangle but I realized the situation I was in wasn’t how love triangles worked, and I want to tell you that I think I’m becoming myself again.
I just came home from a 30,000 step walk to view an apartment. I haven’t really told anyone that I’m planning on staying, but here we are. And on that walk home, I passed by shoe store after shoe store, café after café, trattoria after trattoria. And that line from old faithful, What Isn’t Ours, came to me:
“How much time does it take for a place to feel like home?”
The concept of home is a memory that looks different every time I go back to visit.
When home and security always felt like pretending to be asleep in the backseat, and your dad carrying you up the stairs and tucking you into bed. I think both my mom and dad knew I was faking it, but maybe watching me fall asleep at night gave them that same sense of security that they were giving me.
My eyes are watering as I’m typing this, and I’m not even going to tell myself that it’s the wine because we all know I can cry at the drop of a button.
I had this idea for a newsletter. Of writing down a memory from every home that I’ve ever lived in. A childhood home, a first apartment. A friend’s apartment, an AirBnB. A memory or a moment where I felt like I was safe in my dad’s arms, and being carried up that winding staircase again.
And can I be honest with you? I can’t remember a lot from my childhood. And maybe I just need to see photos, or maybe I just need to really sit and think. But it’s like every time I sit and try to access a memory, my brain stops me. That has to be some sort of trauma response. Your brain stops you from remembering something that could make you sad. I think my brain thinks it’s protecting me - but I want to tell it that I’m a writer and I need access to the entire library of memories for content.
But you know what I do remember? I used to sleep on my sister’s floor every night. After my parents would tuck me in, I’d sneak into her room and sleep at the foot of the bed. There was always a pillow and blanket ready for me.
So, instead of thinking of different memories that played out in those proverbial 4 walls, I will tell you what home feels like.
Home is second chances. What you go back to, what you trust. What makes you feel like you can breathe. And home gives you those second chances, I think that’s the key.
Home will know your Aries moon. Home will know your flippancy. Home will know your need for freedom, but also need to be desired. Home will give you space. Space to create, space to be alone. A space to book one ways and a space to take risks. A space to create memories with someone, and a space to try to forget those memories.
Home will remind you of her. Of holding your small hand in the garden and showing you how the hydrangeas bloomed this year. Of the gossiping with your best friends, the tea with two sugars, and the naps on your bed. The way her friends already knew what you were up to, because she spoke of you so often.
The way she’d laugh and proudly say, “Oh, that’s my Emily” when your gym teacher tells her that you’re getting a 0 for participation.
Home will remind you of them too. Of the first dates, holding your hand as you run across the road. The way they’d say “What an Emily Mais answer” when you respond vaguely to a question that requires a direct response. The way you both will eventually open up to one another, them being first with the inevitable, “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
Home is I’m sorry, but they’ll mean it. And you’ll mean it. Home tells you that you’re beautiful, but beyond the physical. And home wants you to believe it this time.
Home sets up that pillow and blanket at the foot of their bed, for when you’re ready to come back again.
Home is perspective. And home is time.
Time.
Is there an amount of required time to call some place yours?
30,000 steps. 11 months. Faces of familiarity. Faces that recognize you. The man who drives the floral truck and gives you free daffodils with your roses. The bakers who always ask how your Italian is coming along. “It’s still bad!” you respond and laugh. The man who makes fresh juices and always tells you to take 2 candies instead of 1. Your favourite buffalo mozzarella man from last spring, who you have a regular coffee with now. “Chiara! I thought you moved back to Canada!” You won’t correct him.
And of course, the object of our past newsletters.
In my usual spot at the bar, and in the spot where we first met, he brings me a dirty martini.
“So, you’re just going to stay in Italy and write now?”
I look at the wall of alcohol behind him, tilt my head as if I’m in a deep pensive thought, sigh for dramatic effect, and give the most vague: “Ya.”
We start to laugh.
Whether or not he’ll admit to me or to himself that he’s secretly happy I’m back is a different story but, here we are.
And here, we have to laugh.
We’re home, baby. Again.
I love you,
Emily