At 36,000 feet my breath slows down. The slant of the aircraft is comforting, the nose still angled up. I’ve never had to put “home” in quotation marks before, but that’s all I write on my iPad note page. “Home.” Question mark. The man beside me watches me do it. He’s headed for business in Houston, complaining about the cold in Chicago. I don’t give a fuck about either, but I can tell he’s thinking about my 8 character statement. “Home.” ?
Since when is home intangible? Sure, sure, it’s where your heart it, but it’s still a place isn’t it? The place where you have your underwear drawer and your income tax receipts and your old high school boyfriends hockey jersey?
Maybe. Maybe not, though.
Maybe for some people, home is literally where their heart is. Like at that instant, home was right there, beating and jet engine powered at a 35 degree angle over Galveston. That puts a twist on things.
“Where do you want to live? Like… ideally, for the long run?” My brother asked as we shotgunned up the Sea-to-Sky highway. “…no where…really…” I could only answer.
The Pilot comes over the speakers. “We’ll be heading through storms over Texas, please remain seated as I keep the seatbelt light on for your safety.”
Texas has never had turbulence before.
And neither has “home” been in quotations.
xo & yw
