"She zoomed the streets of the island. South to North. Inside the cab that could not care less. Windows down enough to let the cold Feb air touch her rosy Jack Daniels cheeks. It was past 1AM and she briefly thought about the event of a life time she had next morning. Not at all important at that moment. She smiled at the many times she wanted to live there in those streets, the reasons changing as she grew older. Many homes before and after that. One heart in the East Village."
The bonds and what we call home. Not - necessarily - the one in which you were born. Not - and with good reasons - those in that we lived part of our lives. But the one that embraced you with affection, that accepted you in sickness and in health, at your best and worst drunk .
The spaces - not necessarily - occupied by people who know (or don't) all that you are, where you came from, what makes you, but could not know and be okay with it. After all, hugs are made more of acceptance than understanding.
In retrospect, to look at all the places and moments that one calls home leads us through paths of what it was and also of what could have been. The first determines parameters that we will most likely seek forever, a longing to relive, an endless homesick feeling. Your original house calls for return, it is a train arriving at the station with much awaiting.
The second, more incomplete, is more free of consequences, speaks of possibilities, it is almost homesick due to anxiety. It occupies the physical ideas and concerns. It is not a 'base' because it is uncertain, without roots. But it is home because it moves and even comforts you.
And to think that home is where our heart, or in this prose, where our heart was. Heart with smells of YSL and Fracas, white clothes and many scarves, bracelets and a lot of soft skin, huts made out of fresh linen, dogs, 'biscoito Globo' with crispy sand, warm sun during cold winter school breaks, a cream Beetle, a shirt of Ziggy, gray and happy days with Dairy Queen, swirls and languages not spoken, westies and refrigerators with overdue items, Benny Hill and late nights of grown up talks, arched legs and antibiotics (and lots of water), warm little hands and one unconditional gaze.
So much to call home. Many hearts in many cities. Some in islands.