Home Is A Memory

I found home again

Hi dear readers,

Home is a roof over your head. No, home is where your family lives. No, not quite home is where you’re safe. Home is a memory.

As a child, I lived with my grandparents. We moved a lot. Early on, I learned home is not a place. The space between my grandparents’ wings stopped being safe when I turned 12. 

My search for home began then. 

When I was 26 years old, I bought a house and lived in it for 16 years. My family and I celebrated many birthdays and holidays there. The house was a security blanket for me but not my home. It was the house that allowed me to give my sons a home.

In 2019, well into my forties, I moved to the suburbs for the first time in my life. The new construction four bedroom two story house had all kinds of amenities: parks, pools, walking trails, and even lakes. It was safe. My family lived with me. It was a roof. It was not home.

When I was 11 years old, my grandparents and I lived on the second floor of a house, tucked in the mountains of San Lorenzo, Puerto Rico. Every morning, Mami made us cafe con leche with a piece of cheddar cheese and a couple of export sodas crackers.

I’d followed her to the balcony balancing my breakfast in my hands trying to be grown. 

We’d sit side by side. Mami in the rocky chair. Me on the floor. Acres of banana trees, coffee plants, tamarindo trees, passion fruit trees, and more reigned at our feet.

A lush green quilt spread over the hills for miles. A single-lane road and houses that from afar seems tiny were the only sign of human life. Mami and I in silence would share our thoughts only with the trees. Silence is home sometimes. 

Yesterday, I dreamt of my sister Jessica. We talked and laughed on a familiar couch. I haven’t spoken with my sister in years. Jessica was my home throughout the years I didn’t have a home. People can be home too. 

When I told my husband about the dream. He said I was smiling. He showed me the picture he took of me smiling in my sleep.

A few months ago, I moved into a smaller house in the city. My husband and I haven’t gotten around to fixing up the backyard yet. Our patio furniture was thrown around with no purpose or rhythm. Cheap rattan chairs with wet cushions and one with no cushion at all. While my husband made breakfast, I arranged the chairs for conversations. I turned over the table and straightened two chairs. 

While eating breakfast outside, I told my husband I wanted to hang an egg chair under the Southern Live Oak tree. My husband and I love DIY projects. It ignites our creativity and love for each other. He took apart the wicker chair we had in the garage, got a lineman rope, and said we had all we needed for a hanging chair. We did. 

When I sat in the chair,  took my shoes off and brushed my feet against the grass. I looked up at the tree. Chicken, birds, and squirrels visit this tree often. I saluted the leaves above me, their branches stretched out like an umbrella. I thanked the Oak tree for holding the chair and my body, for offering me shade. A gentle breeze caressed my face. Within my inner silence, I heard the tree whispering, Welcome home.

For you my dear reader, I hope you are home. I hope this week is one of love, joy, health, and peace for you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for listening.