I used to be a writer. I am writing this so I suppose one could say that I am still a writer, but it’s been so infrequent, I feel like I merely borrow the term now.
I always knew when I had something to say; the words, they would just turn on, like a faucet. If I didn’t get them out, it would slowly turn into a drip, drip, drip, with a pressure buildup behind my fingers. Now, the words, they just lurk. They sit on my chest, real heavy like my sweet Miss Dilly kitty at 5 am, waiting for her breakfast. She is persistent, purring loudly, but I am tired, lulled by the blankets and the comfort of doing nothing … until she bites.
2015 has been a bitch of a year for me. I have been betwixt and between. I’ve moved, again. I’ve changed jobs, again and again. And you would think, this oh-so-clever bisexual would be used to the in between, the flippy floppy, but I am not. The in-laws have now wondered if every time I see them I will be coming at them with big changes: a new job, new place to live, a new new new something or other. I’m delighted to say this holiday I was not.
However, Christmas morning I woke up and was overcome by the feeling that I needed to be home. But where is it? Is it a place? Is it where the heart is, because my God, my heart has been broken so many times, its fragments are more like shards of glass from a champagne flute having just slipped through my drunk fingers. Seriously, I am homesick, with no home to return to. I am not grieving, I know what it is to grieve. I am experiencing what the Welch call hireath, but not for Wales, an actual house or past, but for a place I can never return to, because I am not sure I have been there yet. Home.
I am feeling nostalgic, but I think for a place I have been building all my life, but have not yet been.
I am not much into making resolutions. I have always found it much easier to look back than to look ahead. But I think this year that will change. 2016, you will be my year of homecoming.