Homebody

Today I feel every inch between me and my roots, the town of my birth and where my people are. The entire country is wedged between here and there, blocking my view of home. Thousands of miles, millions of people, across plains and forests, mountains, valleys, through countless towns and cities. Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Washington.

Recently, my mom sent me a few things I had left in Seattle, and when I opened the package I tried to catch the scent of home, burying my face in a forgotten blazer, searching for a breath of comfort, of that familiar Mom Smell, but it wasn't there. Somewhere along the way it had faded, unable to make the journey of 2,822 miles from her doorstep to mine.

I'm searching our apartment for something that connects me to home. We brought with so few non-essentials -- too few as I'm unable to find what I'm looking for. An object with the patina of childhood, timeworn and of no use to anyone but me, to bridge the chasm between. A string stretched across the country that I could tug on and there would be a tug back. To cry out "Hello!" and hear my family's voices answer back in unison. To stretch my hands to the west and feel fingertips touch mine. Something soft and threadbare, carried in on a breeze, to cool and dry my tears.