Heading to England, I told a friend, I’m going home.
Then thought – How many years do you have to be away from somewhere before you stop calling it ‘home’ (if you ever do)? And how many years do you have to stay somewhere before you call it ‘home’?
Maybe ‘home’ is just another place in the parade of places your life takes you through, and although some may accumulate the baggage of regret at leaving, you know that regret will pass before you get to the next place.
Not to deny the sentimental, self-indulgent, and self-centred power of nostalgia, but there have been times I’ve decided, so debilitating is the wrench of leaving, that I don’t want to ‘go home’ again.
But I’m here.