I’ve been dreaming about going home for a while. Every night, I’m back there, at my grandparents’ apartment.
In my dreams, I’m always the child running up and down the stairwell, hiding from other kids and the grownups. When it’s dark outside, I run back in to the apartment and eat with my grandparents.
Even the furniture is arranged in the way twenty years ago.
Having a baby in the time of the corona virus makes going 7500km back home really difficult.
Almost impossible thanks to the travel restrictions and quarantine regulations.
But I have hope.
I have to live on hope because that’s the only reason I’m still functioning as a person right now.
My home is where I grew up, where my families are.
I want to get far, far away from it. But I’m always tied to it. And I need to go back regularly. That’s how I am.
In fact, I’ve been away since more than 10 years ago. I’ve never wanted to move back. I belong out here, in the world, wherever.
But I’m not rootless. I’m not a nomad in that sense.
I can grow anywhere. But I only have one root that I don’t have with me.
It grows deep into the soil of my home. The one and only.