Home - David Byrne/Brian Eno
My father once asked me on a drive back from college, just the two of us, how I knew when I was home. I asked him what he meant. He said when he was in the service there was a particular bend in the road that when he took it and rounded that corner and saw the ocean in the harbor of the town where he grew up, his heart filled his chest and he knew he was home.
I would love to say I feel the same way. I love my hometown. I love the smell of the ocean in all kinds of weather. I love being in the house I grew up in for any length of time, for a quick visit, a meal, an overnight stay or a long holiday. I spent the Great Ice Storm of ‘98 there, after all, huddled around a woodstove and playing cribbage with my parents for days while we waited for the power to come back on.
But now, I’ve been in my own house for ten years. I have three kids, two girls who share a room and a hospital-style setup for my son. I’ve made my own changes, started and completed my own projects, and filled it with my own stuff. I don’t need to wonder when I’m home. I already am.