In July, I’m reflective and mindful. Philosophical. A little Zen-ish.
I’m homesick even when I’m sitting on my own couch, lounging in my own house.
I want to run through the sprinkler at Aunt Carol’s house on 40th Avenue West with my sister, Kay, and cousins, Debbie and Mary. I want to eat bologna sandwiches slathered in Miracle Whip, drink sugary orange Kool-Aid, and giggle about what it might feel like to kiss a boy with my eyes closed and my tongue out.
I want to count backwards from 100, find the people I love hiding in all the familiar places.
The mere scent of peonies’ causes my body to react in ways I can’t fully describe. Sort of like standing next to your Nana inhaling an entire history of stories, or awaking with the sun directly upon your skin.
Even black ants living inside pink petals is a reminder that life is exuberant, breathing, and swallowing up every infuriating, ticking clock.
In July, I get a little nostalgic, wistful.
I remember walking to Bridgman’s to buy chocolate revel ice-cream cones with my sister, holding onto her chubby hand with all my might. The heat slamming against our faces never bothered us then, never concerned us then. Skin cancer was not our reality. We lived in moments like the spaces between words, like the pauses between rhyme.
Those are the moments I hear God’s heartbeat within my core.
ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum-tssssssssh.
The aroma of tomatoes simmering, gnocchi boiling, peppers frying, and garlic bread rising in the oven is my home. Surly, this is the reason we hold memories. To take out later when we need them to survive, to unearth afterwards when we desire to go back where we were once carefree and sprinting through cool sprinklers.
I’ve come to the conclusion that home is not a place at all, but a sensation, an experience, the perfume of summers’ past, Sunday dinners with my big fat Italian family, and the stain of orange Kool-Aid smeared on our lips like a Mary Oliver poem.
Today–my home is here. Now. Where I am.
When my boys walk into the kitchen with smiles on their faces, hugging me closely.
And I serve them my daddy’s homemade spaghetti sauce and warm bread with so much love that my insides hurt.
——-Dear, Reader, what is your HOME like? xx