i pulled my shirts from their places on the hangers and squeezed my 3 oz bottles into the 1 qt bag as tightly as i could. one last scan of the room before i wheeled my luggage down the hall. i think i’ll tire of this suitcase soon…it will continue to be my dresser for the next month until an apartment is found and the rest of my things arrive. as well, work will require its use often, already a trip next week to la and this is only the beginning. but it’s okay… i get the feeling this job is going to take me other places as well not accessible by a plane.

i begin to mentally prepare myself for a couple meetings this morning before i fly back to san francisco in the afternoon. i push the elevator button on the eighth floor of my portland hotel. the door opens and i roll my minimal belongings across the threshold into the mirror lined container.

the door closes and the descent begins. just me an another.

he breaks the silence with the generic question, ‘heading home?’

i turn to him to answer, but the words don’t immediately come…

oh, if he only understood the depth and acceptance such a question implies… should i try to explain the struggle i’ve had with the word ‘home’ and that the definition has become more of a fluid concept than a tangible place? should i speak of the people who have made me feel at home or the moments which have held more belonging than any place could ever have and that i am no longer returning to them? should i tell him three months ago i left my ‘home’ in india and one week ago my ‘home’ in kansas? should i tell him i now sleep in a couch in a city i don’t yet know and wonder if i’ll be able to make it home?…

the elevator dings and i realize i’ve encouraged the awkwardness with my mental discussion and physical silence. he stands, still awaiting my answer with quite a confused look on his face

finally, i reply, ‘yeah. i am… i’m going home.’

he really has no idea how hard that question was and what it required me to accept.

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