What is home? Beyond the cliques and the poets, the song lyrics and the comics…what makes us feel home? For my mother-in-law (my belle-mére) this apartment with the views of the sea is home for her. With the collections of pictures on every surface and every wall, with the piano in the corner with the bust of Beethoven sitting on top, staring sightlessly out at me. With the orange awnings that must be wound up or down throughout the day depending on the location of the sun. The sound of scooters and motorbikes zooming by and the parking lot below her balcony with its constant traffic to keep her occupied and entertained. Home to her is here, in France. No matter how hot it gets or cold, no matter how far it is from her children. This is where her sweaters are and her slippers. This is where her memories are. This is where she wants to be.
I remember most the smell of home. Earliest memory tells me that the smell of safety and home was imbedded in my mother’s sweater. Not just any or every sweater she had. It was one specific sweater, ivory colored with big buttons. Not scratchy wool, most likely cotton and it smelled like mom. Like comfort. Not a specific perfume or product. Just the essence of my mother and no matter what, with that sweater I felt everything would be ok. It was powerful. It was home. When I felt scared without her, the sweater calmed me down.
Here, living in a foreign land with no markers of my own, I feel like I’m drifting through a current, in someone else’s home. I have no mom sweater. I’ve heard people say that home is where your love is. Well, my love is here. My heart is in France. But my spirit is adrift. Maybe I am without physical location currently and therefore am not at rest. I have been rootless for so long, drifting from roommate to parents to living with my in-law…perhaps my soul is in a holding pattern..like a hummingbird not ready to land. For me, home is what I carry with me, deep inside me. The stories I know, told and untold, the memories I cherish and the dreams I hold dear. And some day I will have walls to pin those memories up on and slippers to keep. But for now, home is a goal, a distant hope and the reality is constant movement and change, the sweet nectar of a passing flower.
