My Home.

I'm taking a break from packing up the chartreuse linen dinner napkins, white ceramic platters, and all the invented, never executed, dinner parties I planned to have with them. Almost four years ago I was opening these items up- wrapped in ivory paper and silk ribbon, for my wedding. And before that, I was choosing how many serving sets I should put on my Registry. "Would we have six or eight friends come over for dinner", I asked Him.

Eight short stemmed water glasses nestle together in the large box. Square plates- the small ones we always joked to each other were "perfect for portion control" file in, and I am reminded of when I last packed these up. Bare, nothing wrapped around them to keep them safe, I hurriedly packed and left that home. My home with Him.

"Home" evokes so many thoughts for me. From my teenage powder blue bedroom, and counting the ceiling tiles in our 50's era home, to my first real home on the hill, with my Great Grandparents. In every sense of the word, "Home", this house was that. I shared the top floor of this home with my mother, and for a short time my father before they divorced and he moved back to his home country. Every cliche was experienced here: I baked with Grandma, and helped clean the smelt my grandfather fished for. I practiced my violin in my room- the one at the top of the stairs, my mother listening not too far off, making sure I was working on my recital song, Humoresque. This home, it was happy.

With Him, there was always a struggle of Home. How to decorate it, how to treat it- and more than anything, how you should feel in it.
I'm sure if you studied my spending habits in the last four years, it was all centered around home furnishings. I added to the vintage book collection almost weekly, and the amount of pillows on the couch was the subject of many jokes. But to me, this was my effort- my grasping- at making 140th Street home. Some people are emotional eaters. I am an emotional spender, and decorator- a frustrated artist that has been searching for the perfect expression to put on the canvas.

My home now, a one room studio in a neighborhood much hipper and chic than me, has suited me well. I remember the night I walked in. I was early, and that worked to my advantage as apartment number 9, with new bamboo floors and pedestal sink was coveted by a long list of other home-searching hopefuls. I cried as I signed the lease, and Marco, the owner and intuitive landlord asked "Was this your decision or His?"

I moved in, and with sparse walls and high ceilings, this place felt immeasurably larger than it does today. I played my vinyl Carole King albums on the turntable for the first month straight. If there was ever a person who understood this pain, it would be her. At night, Carole and I would cook a meal of rice and a rotating flavor of Trader Joe's curry. Inviting someone over was out of the question. "Here, sit on my bed and eat dinner!" So, in this year, I ate more than a thousand meals by myself. Drinking the calm of being alone, and feasting on the ability to chose how I live and what my home feels like. This was a meal I liked.

I watched a beautiful movie- a movie I will sweetly remember always as mine. And I had a powerful response to a character, my kindred spirit, who put this feeling in words:
"Sitting there, alone..., far from my job and everyone I know, a feeling came over me. It was like remembering something I'd never known before or had always been waiting for, but I didn't know what. Maybe it was something I'd forgotten or something I've been missing all my life. All I can say is that I felt, at the same time, joy and sadness. But not too much sadness, because I felt alive. Yes, alive."

My sadness which once felt inconsolable and eternal, has been buffered to create this feeling I can only explain as being "alive". I have traveled much further than I ever thought possible- and yes, I am nearly home.

I am returning to my first home. To the Great Grandmother I learned to bake with. I am now her caretaker and companion. Being nearly 100 years with all the ailments that brings, I have determined it the time for me to go back home now.

I feel proud I can do this for her. Whether this is for five months or five years, it will be a sacrifice- for both her and me. But sacrifice is one of the flavors of home, so I am not so worried.

Putting aside the boxes with all my seasonal decorations, I plan to surprise her with white festive lights and red-bowed wreaths. I feel repentant for not doing this last year, or the 18 years before that she's been alone. That maybe my nativity set will be more redeeming than ever. Even if it's only for me, perhaps.

Home, if you can hear me, I am coming.
With Carole, silver serving set, and many desires- most of all, to be alive- yes alive.