[the author returns from a journey, to a journey]
it is fine to just arrive in the city you have been living in – not worry if to call it “yours” or “your city” or “home” – not worry if to feel together or alone – actually, stop looking around. stop reaching out with each sense to wonder if the man across or the women talking have some thought about you. just see the window, just say your words, have your own history, meaningful enough on its own, wrapped around your shoulders.
when you get to your door later, not thinking if it is yours, the key in your pocket, the methodical push & turn of the lock in the muscle memory of your fist, all you need to do is unpack. touch everything. touch anything you like. feel greeted by your own ghosts – who recognize you, who welcome you back to the space you have wordlessly invited them to share with you.
maybe, for a moment, you are aware: you have left the ghosts of other households at some threshold – either theirs, or the taxi’s door, or the imagined boundary, laid in the sea, between their land and the one you headed back to.