I don’t really have a childhood home. From birth to high school graduation, I lived in seven different places. Not as rootless as, say, a military brat, but enough moving around that when people ask for my hometown I sort of shrug. So I am not attached to PLACE.
I am attached to people.
Yesterday, when at long last our New York apartment (the second of our marriage) was empty, I didn’t feel especially overwrought. Except due to exhaustion. Yes, we raised babies in that apartment, and yes, the kitchen was fabulous, and yes, the washing machine and dryer were stupendous.
But the people who were there with me made it the life that it was. The husband, the babies, the neighbors, the friends.
In the age of gchat and Facebook, we’re going to be physically far away but hardly distant.
And now I’m off to the airport.