I miss home. The air smells different there. The streets and sounds are comforting and familiar. Every place has a memory or a feeling. I miss the trips to the Mt. Vernon meat store. We would eat beef patties outside while we wait for our bulk order. Car rides the length of Central Avenue. Taking the long way to Eastchester (via Post Road) where my grandmother’s travel agency was. Driving past my mom’s old job to get to dance class in Yonkers. I can walk to the Galleria Mall with my eyes closed from a few different places.
There, I don’t have to put my thoughts, feelings or ideas into context. They just know. They know me.
You can only know this feeling if you aren’t home or have left home. Or you home is no longer. That’s how you know what it feels like to miss home.
As I’ve grown, home will always be a physical place but has taken on mire of a feel. My fiance is home. My family is home. My friends are home (literally and figuratively). Carmen the cat and Curtis the dog…home.
I surround myself with home, so that I never feel sick.