Dudurudh

First, what is home? It’s hard to tell. Perhaps it’s the first images in my mind when I think of that word.

“Home”

I think of the yellowing leaves in my living room, the dust that always settles on the coffee table’s base no matter how often I dust, the stains on the dining table that I’ve covered with a pretty table runner. I think of the mattress in the living room that always sinks into the gaps between the rods of the bed frame.

At home, there’s always space in the closet for two spare bottles of dishwashing liquid, one spare bottle of windex, one bottle of brass polish, some paint thinner and 1-2 other things which I’m sure I bought for good reason.

The rest of it is miscellaneous nuts and bolts and erasers and pencils – useful things I haven’t used in 6 years but I’m sure that will change this year, maybe? Maybe.

The second closet is for my empty suitcases. I came here with 2. I have 7 in all shapes and sizes now. And yet, as I think of what I’ll pack to take from this home, most of what I need won’t fit in them. The hugs, the tears, the sound of laughter. The impromptu song and dance on the subway platform, the walks in prospect park, a kiss on a Brooklyn rooftop, the breeze by the bridge, the coffee and the crepes, the pigeons and the mice- maybe not the pigeons (and not all the mice).

One day soon, I’ll be back to gather them all.