Going Home Again

For the past few weeks, I've been thinking about a quote from Giovanni's Room. Paraphrased here: perhaps home isn't a place, but an irrevocable condition.

Fine.

The problem is, this seems to be the only thing about the book that I remember. This is particularly frustrating for me as I generally pride myself on my recall of literature.

Out of context, it's just, well, out of context. A reread is clearly in order.

At any rate, I think that it's safe to say that these words have been on my mind simply because of my recent trip back home.

Home.

What does that even mean? To be back in a place that's at once as familiar as it is foreign.

A few years ago, my parents were getting frustrated with the house and its cluttered rooms, and I suggested they move. Now, as I pad through the halls, I'm glad they decided against it. Each time I'm back, I remember something different—perhaps I'm getting sentimental as I age. This time, cleaning out the smaller closet in my childhood bedroom, with its raised floor and sloping walls, I'm suddenly transported to the age of 7, hiding in there with a flashlight and a Roald Dahl book, quietly reading, savoring the fact that I had my own private place. I was just that kind of kid, I guess.

I still love the idea of those private spaces. But, I also love having those spaces where you're known. This occurs to me as we're out to dinner for my father's birthday. We're at a place that we've gone for years, where R., the owner knows my family quite well, even gave my sister a job at once point. Nothing's fancy, just perfectly familiar. We'll order the same things, R. will come over, say hello and make a fuss over my parents.

And, he does. It's good for them—it's been awhile since they've been here. Anywhere, for that matter, as they were trying to process the current state of things.

Right. The current state of things. Soon enough the conversation turns in that direction. They're a well-oiled machine. Clearly, they've done this before.

I watch intently, as she looks on, lets him spin his tale. How he thrives in some ways on the telling. How the telling helps him make sense of it all.

After R. leaves, there's a silence, we're all deep in our own thoughts—it's natural, I suppose—there's also a lot of the meal left to get through. So, I do what I always do. Namely, attempt to use self-deprecation as a way to get the conversation going.

The discussion before turned to their friends' children. One's getting married; one's trying to buy a house; another, still finding himself. I ask them now what they say about me when these conversations happen with their friends. There's the start of a laugh in the back of my throat, forced, but then again I'm trying to bring back a sense of levity. This is a birthday dinner, after all.

My father laughs a little, jokes. Exactly the response for which I had hoped. Then, the conversation turns serious. You're the success story. The fiercely independent one. I find myself wishing that we were back to joking about how I was going to go through the hassle of getting a hotel room for a friend's wedding just so that I could have some drinks. Anything but this.

Partially, I think, it's because I see myself as anything but a success; I'm scared most of the time—that my stubborness has prevented me from doing things that I could've loved, that the choices I've made have all been wrong, you name it. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this. I'm also sure that I could write volumes on it, if I was willing to delve deeper into this particular neurosis of mine.

There's also this: I think we see ourselves reflected in others. He tells me I'm a success because if that's the case, I'll be okay, no matter what and, by extension, he will. That if the worst happens, I'm a capable woman, able to take care of myself. Able to manage because of what he's taught me.

Mostly, I think, that I believe him.

Mostly.