Home

Well, we are officially "home". So, can someone please explain to me why I feel like I don't belong here?

Home for me has always been a murky, confused concept. When I was child and living in Canada, people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I'd sometimes answer, "An American". I had visions of movie stars, palm trees and endless sunny days. I was determined that I would live in California among the rich and beautiful and I would be happy.

Our family moved every four years or so with my father's job so I never got too emotionally attached to any single location in Canada. I made friends easily and I learned how to say good bye. Home for me was a fluid, transient place. My summers were spent in New Brunswick either on my grandparents' farm or at our cottage on the Northumberland Strait and it is those two places that I most associate with the idea of home. When my parents split and our house became a place I wanted to flee, my grandmother's kitchen still provided a steady, grounding, comfort. Over the years, I returned less and less often to New Brunswick because I was safe in the knowledge that it would always be there. The last time I went back was to attend my grammy's funeral. Tomorrow marks six years since her death but it could have been yesterday because it was then, at thirty seven years old, that I finally understood home is where the heart is.

My grandmother's kitchen without her in it left me feeling out of sorts and disjointed. I went into her closet and buried my face in her clothing trying desperately to catch a scent of something familiar, to remember, but my gram wasn't really one for fancy perfumes. I'm not even sure she had a favourite fragrance. She was gone. Period. The finality of the situation stunned me. At the time, my beloved 36 year old cousin, Cindi, was sick with lymphoma and in the throes of chemotherapy treatment. The sight of her, in a wig, frail and painfully thin rocked my world. I was terrified that she would die, too. My family is my home. It's odd that it took me so long to grasp that.

When we were in New Zealand, both Dallas and I were keenly aware of how precious our time is with our loved ones. We took special care to silently document all those moments that give life meaning. I watched my citified daughter collect still warm eggs from the chicken coop as if she'd been born to do it. I witnessed my son climb his first tree and spend more hours outdoors with his cousins than in front of a computer screen. I saw months of tension and stress melt away from my husband as he became a Kiwi again. On New Years Eve, we were awakened at midnight by cheers and fireworks in Auckland. There was something deeply satisfying about starting 2011 in New Zealand. We left on New Year's Day at an impossible time in the morning. As we pulled away from the house, we could see the silouette of Dallas's parents waving from the kitchen window. It felt like we were leaving home. It seemed wrong.

All of this probably explains why, after thirty six hours of travel, I opened my front door and was a disoriented stanger in my own house. I had the overwhelming sense that we don't belong here. In this house. In this city. In this country.

I wish we were home.