Homecoming

I wonder if we should have told her we were flying in when I knock on the door. I take a step back and notice that most of the floor shingles are gone. The porch swing has collapsed. Only the cross above the door remains.

    Matthew and I did not say anything when the taxi pulled out of the terminal. I had a leak in my studio, used up almost all my sick days, and had three upcoming presentations in our Midtown office. I pondered the dichotomy of our life: we were born in this place yet call another city home now. My bruises were all emotional, as I missed the church services, holiday celebrations, artisan fairs, and baseball games. My heart plunged to my stomach when I saw the palm tree branches and electrical wires on the streets. I neglected my hometown when it needed me the most, and I pushed my nails deeper into the leather seat.

    We passed the Catedral Metropolitana Basílica de San Juan Bautista, and I was six years old when I held hands with my mother while we sing at Christmas Mass. We passed La Playita de Condado, and I was thirteen years old and on Matthew’s shoulders before I somersaulted into the aquamarine water. The taxi entered the cul-de-sac, falling prey to potholes. The sand in the baseball field next to our azul verde was swept away.

    My thoughts are punctuated by a click, and my childhood engulfs me as I smell my mother’s plantains. Almost as if the oil being used to fry plantains has soaked into the walls and is being let out through them. I notice a flick of white hair on my mother as her hands fly to her mouth.

    “Felices Fiestas!” Matthew cries out. He pulls her close and we become one. The warmth brings me home. I bury my face into my mother’s hair. Why is it so uplifting on how life can feel so controllable with the right two arms?

    “Tu eres mi amor por siempre,” I whisper.

    The next morning, my eyes flutter open and the lavender smell from the vase on the bedside table hits me. Last night I saw a galaxy of stars, and I cannot remember the last time I saw such a sight. A light breeze moves the gray curtain, unveiling the growing fruits in the garden. All I hear are the thrushes chirping. It’s Tuesday. I don’t have to catch the 5 train. In this place, it’s just the sun, the tulips, my mother, Matthew, and I, against the endless fields.

    We go to Christmas Mass. I shift my feet and glance at the pastor who lost his son during the storm. My track coach, a woman whose support gave me wings during our 12-mile run, stands in the front row. My art teacher Kamilla sees me and nods. Her lips are pursed, a thin line. She’s tired of life. Her radiance has evaporated.

    Later that day, my mother works in the garden. Her apron and gloves remind me of a working girl in a painting created by Marc-Aurèle de Foy Suzor-Coté. I learned about it in my Quebec and Canadian art class at university. My mother sees me step outside.

    “Do you want to go to the ocean?” I ask. Say yes, I beg.

    She smiles, and we walk. We then start to run. My sweaty T-shirt clings to me and I register the scorching grains underneath my feet. The water is sultry and welcomes us in. My mother goes underwater and then emerges. Water trickles down her collarbone, a Greek godess on the bow of a ship, apprehension now turned into courage.

That night we finish the plantains in the garden. The crickets chirp, and I know I don’t need a new apartment. I want my mother’s support. I am nothing without the people who uplift me. My humble roots are what define me.

    “Kamilla is coming tomorrow for tea. Can she stay for an hour?” my mother asks. My heart proliferates.

    “She can stay for three. And I’m canceling Matthew and I’s flight Sunday. I want to stay for New Year’s. I want to see everyone. And participate in the clean ups and water distribution. I would love if you and Kamila can fly up for Easter,” I say.

    My mother brings me into a hug, almost as if she is saying how she missed this antiquated version of me.

    “Me too Mamá,” I whisper.

Home. It's a place, a feeling, a person. I feel home when my heart pulsates to New York City's furor, when I listen to the waves while reading on the balcony of my childhood home, and when I am engulfed in my mother's affection.