Dust and Keepsakes; Home

The Buddhist isn't driving like one.  He is cutting in and out of lanes at a speed that keeps my jaw clenched shut.  I asked him once if he would define himself as an aggressive driver; his answer surprised me for its honesty.  "Yes", he said, "but defensive too..."

We are on the Henry Hudson Parkway, headed south bound, headed home.  The George Washington Bridge reflects in the Hudson like a crystal palace and The Buddhist and I discuss why the towers are illuminated as neither of us has seen this before.  The open steel work is impressive and stunning in the floodlight and I am wide eyed as we enter the bridge.  

The Hudson crossed, we both relax ever so slightly.  The Henry Hudson Parkway is a four lane roller coaster of a highway with high speed and sudden stops.  While The Buddhist is correct that this route is faster, I prefer the Tappan Zee Bridge and the relative predictability of Route 287.  The Buddhist knows that if I am driving this leg of the trip, we are taking the long way home; hence, I am never driving in this leg of the trip.  The Buddhist loves peace...and efficiency.  In truth, I am just as thankful;  I just want to get home.

Home.  Not where the heart is, because my heart is splintered and fragmented; many people carry it around with them, unseen and unburdening. It resides with the Buddhist, and with my daughter too. But home nonetheless.

An hour or so later, the cats are greeting us with curt meows while the house greets us with a quiet indifference.  There is a stale smell to the air and the place feels hollow. The furniture is arranged ever just so and all my precious bric a brac remain fashionably displayed.  Home.

I open the fridge to see what I can conjure for us to nibble and find jalapenos covered in mold, but one is unscathed. I find a few scallions and begin chopping to add to half a bag of shredded cheddar and taco chips. Impromptu nachos. The Buddhist begins squeezing limes. Impromptu margaritas. We mill around, fidgety, unpacking suitcases,  staging our life to begin again tomorrow.  Eventually, we sit, sip and chew.  We are quiet. Too quiet. We have already said what we care to in that wheeled cube we inhabited for too many hours.

Why are we always driving North to the places we love?  Why is this oasis that I call home not enough?  If my heart is where my people are, then what is the magic of this place? If I always crave to be near mountains, why live in New Jersey?  If my body finds peace in a rock strewn stream, why reside in a subdivision?  If my soul seeks nature to hear it own thoughts, why live under Liberty International flight patterns?

I look around the familiar, unsure of what answer I hope to find...