Pack up all my cares and woe
Feelin’ low, here I go
I say bye, bye blackbird
Where somebody waits for me
Sugar’s sweet, so is she
I say bye, bye blackbird
It’s very odd sitting in a room that until recently was so…me, only now it’s not. Everything that was me about this space is packed neatly into the two bags and a carry on (a carry on that is far too heavy, mostly because I’m packing my winter coat instead of wearing it, a fact I’m sure I’ll regret when I get to home climate) – that are sitting behind me. The last thing to pack up is the computer and the various things that go with it, and I always have to make sure to pack my carry on in such a way that the valuables can be easily separated out if the airline requires me to check it.
No matter how many times I do it, it never ceases to feel strange, I never stop feeling…somewhat rootless.
You make an odd kind of family out here, and every six months you leave it behind, and then do it all over again…
So, so strange…
But home isn’t a place, and it isn’t a thing. Home is something you carry in the back of your heart, something that never leaves you, not really. Home is not the building I’m going to (though that helps! A lot!) home…? Home is the people waiting for this little gypsy at the airport…
Hang tight guys, I’m winging my way home real soon…
Come home, gypsy! It’s a strange but wonderful life to feel at home in a place that hasn’t always been home.