#4 ‘HomeLess’
ELEMENTARY
4.
‘HomeLess’
I left my homeland when I was a young adult. As I was running, the ground of the country I was leaving behind was crumbling and dissolving into dust. Often since then, I felt like a visitor in my own life.
I took off, not daring to look behind or ahead. As I felt my father’s hands lifting me on to the first step of the bus, which drove me away in the middle of the night into my future full of hope and worth living, my mind went into a state of a blank. I can't remember anything about that trip.
I worked. I worked hard. I worked hard because that is why I left. To learn and grow. To broaden my horizons. I didn’t want to miss a single little note and an opportunity to make my little note be heard. No time for anything else I thought.
Home. The rhythm of the drum on which your heart is dancing. The rituals that make you sure of your safety. The feeling that you are entitled to more than a piece of paper with your name and social security number on it. The feeling that each breath you take is yours. The smell of earth you recognise in the air. The frequency of what you recognise as living. I tried to build that home with every little note I played.
My father lifted me on to the first step of that bus, and I heard him say: “You are standing on my shoulders. Don’t forget to tell me what you see”. He sent me into the world where we believed I would find something worth looking for, to achieve the ideals of a spirited person. Often as time passed I was looking back trying to remember what that was. As years pass, more and more I am looking for a home to go back to. The more I am looking, the more aware I am that I will never find it. There is no such thing as going back for the one that left home. The wandering beggar. The stranger…
I have seen life in the big world. Made my way through the obstacles of the path that was ahead of me. Fought for my ideals. Gave it all up for the sake of art and commitment. I fell too many times. Tried to pretend I am where I am supposed to be. Tried to learn new languages, to resist the cold even during the warm days. Tried to make an appointment for every coffee. Tried to play the saddest song I could…to touch anybody’s soul… But all I manage is not to fall while others are dancing to the rhythm of their drums.
Sundays. I miss the lunches that bring us all together. I miss the loud voices of all of us talking at the same time telling each other stories we know. I miss the tragic events turned into humorous stories. The real laughter which comes from the saddest place of your heart. The unbearable heat of both the sun and the oven of the person that loves you. Children running around and breaking something, making grandmothers proud of their mischief. I miss the chaos of love and belonging, the too many different cakes and the smell of butter making us lazy. I miss the sound of the scorching sun. The grass turning into golden dust just as our souls, while we enjoy the feast of belonging. I miss belonging. The sort of you didn’t choose for… I miss my grandfather looking into our coffee cups to predict our fortune… making us hopeful, and warning us about dangers he wished he could protect us from. I loved that with overfull stomachs we still went on planning what the next lunch would be. It was always about the food, but actually, the food was about us. I miss...
