As I type I’m sitting on a flight back from Atlanta to London. I was in Seattle last week for business, then took a side-trip to Florida to visit my parents “on the way” back. It was a good visit, and I’m glad we could arrange it.
We kept our townhouse in Seattle. Partially because we weren’t sure when we were going to move, which complicated the logistics of renting it out, and partially because I planned to be back in Seattle regularly, and my employer prides itself on being frugal (read; frustratingly cheap) and I figured our place would be more comfortable than any Seattle hotel offered in its place.
So when I landed in Seattle last Sunday I took a Lyft to “our place,” let myself in, and stood there in the doorway for a few minutes – trying to put a name on my confusion.
“The cats aren’t here to meet me at the door, that’s probably it.”
That wasn’t it.
“It’s cold in here – and too quiet – that must be it.”
Nope, still not right.
I latched the door – irritated that I couldn’t put my finger on the wrong – grabbed my phone, turned off the cameras and vacation mode on the thermostat, before bringing my bag upstairs.
I unpacked a bit, and my sister and brother-in-law arrived – visiting with them made me forget about the whole damn thing.
For a while.
For a while.
The rest of the week was early starts, late returns, stolen moments with missed friends, and each time a feeling of not-quite-right-ness when letting myself in.
I don’t remember feeling the same when I was back a few months ago. Maybe I won’t feel it when I’m back early next year. We’ll see.
But sitting on the plane, knowing I should try to get some sleep but not feeling ready, I can’t help but think about it.
It was still our place. It felt familiar. It had a bunch of our stuff in. It had a washer and dryer that can wash and dry clothes in a reasonable amount of time (a rant for another time). But it wasn’t home.
Dawnise was missing. The cats didn’t greet me at the door. It felt like “our other place.” I suppose it’s like going to a vacation house – but having never had a vacation house, I can’t really say.
So I’m on my way back to London – where the cats will undoubtedly berate me for the couple days they’ve spent alone* – remembering the feeling, first had when we were living in Luxembourg, of not quite knowing where home is. It’s not our place, and the stuff in it is new and not all ours… Never the less, its home.
At least for now.
* Dawnise, amusingly, arrived in a different part of Florida yesterday to join good friends at Disneyworld on their ‘farewell to ‘merica’ tour and won’t be back until the weekend.