“I found this necklace in a shop in Morocco, where tourists weren’t allowed but we made friends with the owner so he let me buy it anyway ‘cause I said it was for my sister. I think he knew you were the right person for it.”
My brother and I sit sprawled on the floor next to the fireplace, even though it’s September and it really isn’t that cold. But it's coziness we're looking for, it's comfort found in closeness and in tea in the kitchen at 4pm and the kind of hugs that are reserved for family.
Three years ago I wouldn't have allowed myself to admit I miss it, but these days it's all I talk about. Home home home home. Take me home and never let me miss my mother's embrace again, for breathing feels a little easier here from the quiet of my childhood bedroom.
There’s a new painting in my old room because a thing that happens when you leave home is that your parents re-decorate the whole place. It’s yellow and white and there’s a pink flower growing in the middle and I think it stands for a new beginning. Dad is listening to Einaudi and the dogs are alternating between licking his leg and my feet, where it tickles the most. His hand reaches out between songs and he caresses my arm, kisses my forehead.
Is it good to be home home, he asks.
I’ve lived here for 19 years and I’ve never felt more at peace with this whole damn country than I do right at this moment, I think.
One of the dogs moves away from our legs and scoots closer to my chest, tries to lick my face. I act like I’m not gonna let her for a whole 5 seconds, before caving and turning her over so she has free access to my face while I kiss her neck.
It’s a good afternoon.