What it's like to be home
Being home is like waking up from a very bad dream (about a blonde woman laughing, a valley full of sleeping bears or a tree house in which your dad puts his big toe in your soup) and being in your parents house which is clean and crisp and the way you'd expect your parents to want to live even though they don't please you. And going downstairs into the kitchen and grilling eggplant. And feeling very, very still.
Being home is being naked and young in a body of grimy water with beer in your belly and waking up with no voice.
Being home is like that.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a parental sense. A nightmare radar. I listen for Trystan's asthma or sneaky children watching french television game shows. I'm not a mother.
Being home is like being thrown into a tornado of swirling life in NJ. Swirling life in the United States of America, where you can't finish your beer on the car ride to the supermarket but you can maybe do some blow in your best friend's log cabin.
I miss you, I miss you so much that it makes me scream.
Thank you. I love you. I've told you before, but I love you.
Being home is being naked and young in a body of grimy water with beer in your belly and waking up with no voice.
Being home is like that.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a parental sense. A nightmare radar. I listen for Trystan's asthma or sneaky children watching french television game shows. I'm not a mother.
Being home is like being thrown into a tornado of swirling life in NJ. Swirling life in the United States of America, where you can't finish your beer on the car ride to the supermarket but you can maybe do some blow in your best friend's log cabin.
I miss you, I miss you so much that it makes me scream.
Thank you. I love you. I've told you before, but I love you.