The Dreaded Question

The worse part about the plane ride to San Diego was when the man sitting next to me asked, “So, where do you call home?”

This is probably one of the easiest, most non threatening questions you can ask a stranger.

But all I can think is:

I wish I was back in the UK where people don’t talk to each other.

I wish I could have an answer that would be brief.

I wish that when he asked me that question it would bring up a mental image of a comfortable house with all our pretty things, linens nicely folded, a fire burning, laughing children, friends gathered around our table.

Instead an image of the storage facility in Framingham comes to mind.

Instead an image of the RV parked on the street in St Louis pops up.

Instead I felt horrible that we don’t have home for our kids

But that is not what we tell Josh and Simon. We tell them that home is wherever the 4 of us are. Walls don’t matter. It is about the feeling we create and the love and strength we provide for each other. We have our own family traditions that follow us around, regardless of where we are.

Whose idea is it that “home” has to be a set place?

I feel amazed when I think of the number of places I have called home.

On my bad days I feel like I am a riff raff. A wonderer. Someone not to be trusted because I am a traveler and just passing through. Shifty.

On my good days I feel like an adventurer, a wonder lust, a person who has places to go, people to meet.

I told the man on the plane, “Vermont” and I smiled nicely and went back to reading my book.