house and home

Kathleen writes so lovingly about New York, like it’s like falling in love every day. I knew Kathleen would love it, and I knew she would kick herself every day if she didn’t go. She exudes New York cool – in the way she dresses, in the way she thinks. I am reminded of another friend I loved in college (Eve, are you out there?), who told me, “When I see you, I think you belong in California, not in the South. When I think of me, I’m not sure where I belong.” She didn’t enjoy the South. She had moved to North Carolina from Philadelphia, enthralled by the idea of Southern charm; and instead, what she found was backstabbing, two-faced, faux-genteel sorority girls who turned her off the place altogether. “You’re not like that,” she would tell me. “I can’t believe you come from this place.”
She was the first person to whom I ever tried to defend my home, but it was no use. And when she left college – she graduated in three years, just so she could leave more quickly – guess where she went? New York City.

So, when I see Kathleen, I think she belongs in New York City, not in the South. When I think of me, I’m not sure where I belong. Was Eve right? Do I belong in California? Because I’m pretty sure it’s not in Denver. As we drove back last night through Wyoming and saw the Rocky Mountains to the west, it felt like another numbingly pretty piece of scenery, not like we had finally made it home. And when we finally got into the house and I checked the mail, and I saw yet more bills and a letter from my mom, I started crying and told my husband the only thing I wanted for Christmas this year was to go home.