It’s happening too often that I’ll be driving somewhere or I’ll be at some place and think, “It’s different at home, it’s different from here.”
So I try to recall where home is. What is my point of reference?
Was it the house in Riverside when orange groves still ruled the earth? The house where my grandmother and I would look at the sheep grazing on the bright green hill behind our house? Maybe it was the townhome in the cul-de-sac where the neighbor committed suicide and I ate banana nut bread while my parents tried to explain suicide to me. Maybe it was the home in Corona that I truly grew up in for 15 years, fled from, and then had taken away from me and my family.
Maybe I’m thinking too hard. Maybe it wasn’t that long ago after all.
Was it the one bedroom apartment near the University where I’d write the boyfriend lengthy apology letters after blacked out nights? Or the downtown Victorian studio apartment where I finally truly found my independence through an easel and paint and Coppola by my side?
Am I sure that it isn’t in a room 12 miles from the beach?
My heart isn’t settled on any one place. But I think the intention is there, and I think perhaps, I find that most unsettling.