going_home kerry the meaning of going home continues to change. home used to be a specific place, dense with trees and memories and random but familiar encounters. we would all return a couple times a year, gather, haunt the usual spots. sometimes we would reminisce, sometimes we were all in tandem, propelling into our own futures, raising our glasses, toasting our shared youth and marveling at our growth. on so many flights and bus rides i leaned my head against a window and felt my eyes burning, asking myself where home was. i landed in cities and towns that i knew but still felt alien and temporary. i was clinging to a city that was always different when i returned and realizing that i had no idea where or when i would arrive home, when i would cross a threshold and smell home, wake up at home, go to sleep at home. i've stopped clinging. i return reluctantly. did these wood floors always creak this loudly? i doubt it--if they did, how did i manage to sneak out at night? was this family always so distant and strange to me? probably not, because if they were, i wouldn't have missed them so much. now home isn't a place, it's certain people. i climb into the back seat of jackie and corey's car and within minutes am laughing so hard i'm crying. we go to her sister's house and i meet her orange-haired children, and jackie and i tell finn that we became friends when we were seven, like him. he pauses, a half-eaten piece of cinnamon toast in his tiny hand, and then bursts into laughter. jackie's sister is an exhausted mother--"ayla, that's a screw, not a crayon, don't draw on yourself," "finn, it's time to brush your teeth, do you really need more toast?"--but when i look at her face i see the girl who drove us to school in the little red pick-up, i see their mother's soft features, i see their father who cheered and yelled from the sidelines during our soccer games. isabel and i stand in front of a bookstore where i've shopped since i was in high school and browse the discount books, and i read aloud a paragraph from the jacket of a novel called "how to kill your best friend," and she cackles and takes pictures, and we dawdle along the broken sidewalk and comment on the houses with their halloween decorations and wax-leaved magnolias and sunken porches. we go to a show later, at a bar i used to go to with jack and alex and all those other crust-punks, i think of a halloween fifteen years ago where we showed up in terrible costumes and watched a black sabbath cover band. this show is different, the stage has been moved, the light is blue and i leave my tab open and when isabel and i get bored we climb into a corner booth with our drinks in little plastic cups and we are still laughing, the same laughter we shared in our apartment when we were 21, in minneapolis, in paris, in budapest, in oregon. she has a silver streak in her hair and i wear glasses but the laughter is the same. "can i stay with you next time?" i asked jackie as we crossed the threshold of her house, passing beneath a horseshoe i sent to her as a housewarming gift. corey answered "yes please do," and my chest caved in. carrie asked me if there's anyone else in my life who makes me feel this way--ecstatic, giddy, defenseless. i couldn't think of anyone. 241024 ... raze (what a beautiful meditation on the people_who_feel_like_home. this place misses you and your words.) 241024 ... kerry (thanks, raze. i know i haven't been around much but i love it here.) 241031 what's it to you? who go blather from