Home is where your family is

The omnipotent grief of being separated from someone we love

“Going home or leaving home?” the stranger says as he pulls two nonfiction hardcovers out of a leather shoulder bag.

“Both, I guess.”

I’m sweating, holding an overtired, oversized one-year-old, and shoving a water bottle between my hip and the armrest.

“Right.”

“I’m from there. But I live here.”

I’m leaving the family I made for the family that made me. It’s not for long, which is good for one and bad for the other.

My baby says, “Dada,” which he has repeated since his dad shut the door of the car we drove away in.

“I’m thinking about Dada, too, hun,” I say. “We’ll see him again. Tomorrow.”

On my hometown ground, I don’t stand still. I hug two dozen people. I hold my bladder too long.

On video call, I explain to my eldest why it’s still light where I am.

I don’t get enough sleep. My sister’s guest room is dark.

On video call, I explain to my eldest why it’s still dark where I am.

I spend ten hours with four people. I eat what’s nearby: a tomato from a drawer, Arby’s roast beef sandwich with Arby’s sauce, a half-eaten damp English muffin.

I leave for the airport. It’s hard to leave. It’s impossible to stay.

Without enough time to get over missing my husband and child, I miss my dad, my grandma, my sister, my aunt.

The driver asks, “Is this home?”

“Yes and no,” I say. The compound misses spill out of me. As I wipe my face, the driver tells my baby he needs to try a root beer float. He says he loves root beer barrels, the candy.

I tell him I love root beer. I say the moon is the Cheshire Cat’s smile tonight.

I have swollen eyes where nobody thinks twice. Someone in a security uniform hands my baby a sticker, and he starts eating it.

I worry I’d forgotten something long after I had anything I could do about it.

I hear someone say my name to someone else.

Grandma texts, “Never long enough.”

My husband texts, “obviously will be following the flight”

He never uses punctuation. I love that nothing’s final to him.

“No, don’t wait up,” sends before my phone disconnects.

Wheels leave the ground after 29 hours.

A flight attendant offers me two cans of what I requested, and I take them.

“There’s no feeling like a baby asleep on you,” he says.

I drink the two miniature cans of tonic and eat a bag of sun chips. The sky feels alright tonight. I read half my novel.

When my phone re-connects, I receive the following:

“You’re already a tenth of the way”

“A quarter”

“A third”

“You’re halfway”

“100 more miles”

“I hope you’re on the left for city views”

A woman with beads in her hair offers to retrieve my baby’s stroller from the overhead compartment, and she opens it without effort. I set him in, still asleep. A half-dozen strangers silently cheer.

I tell them, “You’re all angels.”

When we reach our corner, I text the following:

“The shitty bodega is still open.”

He’s in the bike lane as my door opens onto the empty street. Our baby smiles.

I sleep long and sound.

Soundtrack:

Notes to you, reader:

I love love. I love its highs and its lows. I want to feel it each day. Thank you for sharing that with me on Mondays. It’s taken me by surprise that this publication continues to attract love-loving compatriots. It’s my story, but it’s all of ours, too, isn’t it? Love is love, as they say. So until next Monday, take care of yourself and your loved ones.

xoxo,

Abigail