Homesick for the home I've never had

Home. For some it’s the smell of lilac bushes. For others it’s putting your head on your mother’s lap while she watches “I Love Lucy” and shakes with laughter. It can be the smell of meatballs and red sauce or hot apple pie, rain on hot pavement, freshly mowed grass or salt water. For some it's the click of a mouse while hovering over the word "home" on their favorite website. The possibilities are endless. Is it a smell, a place or a feeling? Perhaps it’s a mix of all three?

Being one with a strong gypsy spirit that doesn’t sit still, I have many homes. There are places and faces I can’t shake. The airport has become my home. Certain airports I have frequented enough times to know where to eat, where to nap and which spot is best to sit in order to watch the planes take off. Some roads I’ve traveled so many times, I know which hotels to avoid and where the prettiest detours are.

When I want to lie my head down and sit quietly until the storm passes, I get lost. My inner compass used to point me to a certain place. I often wanted to go home, but I don’t know if I can call my home home anymore. The old saying: “you can never go home again”, is spoken with a ring of painful truth. The place I go to center myself and regroup feels like it's no longer home for me. The mountains, lakes, pine trees and fried clams call to me only I can’t answer and if I did, what would I say? I’ve cheated on you with adventures and airport food. I’m a home whore that’s lost among airports and well-traveled roads.

On the run since 16, a home is something I’ve continued to crave. The last time I felt it, I was in Laconia, NH, sitting on the porch of a funky colored duplex that my husband and I rented and boldly painted ourselves. The smell of summer and fried food filled the air; the windows were open all summer and life was good. We moved to an apartment complex and forced the feeling of home through the smell of humidity and newly discovered Tex-Mex breakfast tacos. We eloped on a trip to Hawaii and the smell of dragon fruit, sea salt, Spam, tropical drinks and beach fires filled the air. Leaving was so difficult. We cried.

Spending the New Year with my cousins in Connecticut loaned their own comforting smells of home. Never in my life did I believe anyone could top my mom’s Italian red sauce and meatball recipe. This vegetarian willingly bent over backwards on principles and consumed what can only be described as “home in my mouth”. Back in Texas a new trail of scents welcomed me home as I planted and successfully grew my own garden. Cilantro, basil, Roma tomatoes, potatoes, parsley and spinach grew like a jungle in my little raised bed. An Italian’s wet dream.

Off we went once again to experience misadventures in Oregon. Apples trees, berries bushes and grapes grew in our yard. We had apple crisp all summer long. Flowers I didn’t recognize grew like mad in the front and back yard, leaving a scented trail around the house that happily wafted through the open windows on hot, summer nights. Spring came and forced the smell of lilacs to tickle my olfactory senses through the open windows. The smell of wine being pressed right before my eyes is one I can't remember to forget. And the rain, oh the smell of the rain. Oregon rain. As depressing as those gloomy, rainy days were, the smell was most welcome. Tears streamed down my face on the coast as I sat among the salty Sea Lions, wine, salt water taffy and fried fish. Even more tears streamed down my face upon leaving Oregon and realizing I may never smell the inexplicable scent of another entity, trailing down the hallway after me, in my home. Because of her, I was never alone.

Back to Texas once again, the last place I called home, I am welcomed with the scent of severe rain married to the humid air while having a sordid affair with top shelf margaritas and queso dip. I need to regroup; I need a soft lap to rest my head on while “I Love Lucy” plays and the smell of red sauce fills the air inside. I want my mom. Yes, this almost 39-year-old grown ass woman who’s been on her own since she was 16, wants her mommy. I want to go home. Where is that?

#home #nostalgia #oregon #texas #newhampshire #scents