When I arrived in Pittsburgh, it felt foreign. Of course
there was the same statue of Franco Harris and the pieced together dinosaur
fossil, but when I had seen them before, I was always going somewhere. This
time, I was coming back first.
I am always so inclined to say that I was going home, but
that’s just not what it is anymore.
I’ve started getting used to saying “my parent’s house” or “the
place I grew up” just to be clear that I don’t actually live there anymore. I
need to get it straight in my head or else I end up spinning in a current of
uncertainty: which life is the present?
When I arrived in Seattle, there weren’t any dinosaur bones
to greet me. There wasn’t a soul in that airport that I knew, but somehow, they
felt like my people. They get me. I’m home.
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