Coming Home
Or, the Arms of the Octopus
We are back in Sicily this week after a brief visit to the U.S. for a much needed family get-together. On the long transatlantic journey I found myself thinking of Troina and the lives we were returning to. This was not our first occasion outside of Sicily since moving here in 2022, nor was it our first time back in America. But for some reason the return travel felt to me, as if for the first time since making the Big Decision that delivered us to Sicily, like coming home.
Why was that, I wondered? I mean beyond the fact that this is where we sleep most nights, where we eat our meals and keep our things, where home is what we call it. Beyond that, all that mundane structure and habit though, what had changed from those other times we’d left and returned? Was it simply a case of familiarity and comfort, amplified by the passing of time? Or was it something more, a sense of something less to do with place and more to do with my own self?
Whatever the reason, it was an odd juxtaposition, as we’d just spent time with our kids, all of us together in one place. A rare thing any parents with grown children will understand. Our children have always defined where home is to us, from the moment we became a couple. Even when not living under the same roof, they have in large part defined when and where and how our lives opened and unfolded, stretching outward like the arms of an octopus, connected but separate.
They say that home is a place that holds food and fire for the mind as well as the body and I am sure that many of you who are parents will appreciate that sentiment, especially as you recall your own most recent visit with your beloved offspring. They are such a deep part of our identity, of who and how we think of ourselves, what worries we carry. Of how we imagine ourselves being alive in the world. As Mom. Dad. Parents. And, for the truly fortunate, Friends.
Our first full departure from America to Sicily was a whirlwind adventure, full of uncertainty, anticipation and wonder. The second one, a mere 504 days later, was more a continuation of that, as we had just begun to settle into what would become our established selves here. In both cases, my sense of home had not yet shifted. It was still with the children, with the remnants of our old lives, with our old jobs. Even with us, who we were as a couple. My desires for the future seemed nestled still within the landscape of what had been, not of what yet could become.
It's complicated and conflicting, I know. Even Franca, who knows me better than anyone, seemed surprised by this admission. But I can hear the dismay in her voice every time I ask what happened to this thing or that. The fish spatula. A particular book. Our paper shredder. As if the placement of those missing things were a question that needed answering. We are here, she is here. Why does it seem like I am still there, pondering the cost of our move?
Indeed, dreams and habits, even old ones, do not die hard, but whither reluctantly. How is one to feel at home when home is so so far away from where the best part of ourselves lay their heads? How can this house in this town on this island in this distant land feel like home to us now?
Some of the answer lies, of course, in the fact that this is where we live now. There is our bed. Our table. The room where we sit and have coffee. The floor upon which we traipse. It is not a place like any other we’ve lived before, and yet, it is like every home we’ve ever imagined or dreamt of for ourselves and our children. One day, it will have the memories too of them all being here. Maybe not all at once perhaps, but they will know this house like a home when they do come and maybe that is the new sensation I was feeling as we were traveling back, the potential of home, the probability that it lies here, and the knowledge that everything is fine. All is okay. We are all okay. We are still the arms of the octopus.
It may not be the kind of place that others imagine when they think of Sicily. There is no beach, no sea of crystal clear water. There are ruins but not of sort that draw tourists. There are, though, moments of awe, moments of being lost in thought, moments of rest and restoration. There are periods of gathering with others, of building friendships and being in nature, and also being alone.
It is not anything like a vacation and yet it is exactly like that in that it is still, for us, new and strange and a bit unbelievable that it even exists. And yet, as I write these words tears fill the corners of my eyes and I check the calendar for when we will go back there, to America, back with them where they are, wherever they are, watching them navigate adulthood. In a place where Sunday dinners and long walks do not require a plane crossing, or arrival and departure times, or much coordination at all. Just a phone call and a need to see one another. The joy and love of each other’s company.
And I think back to when we chose this place, Troina, the circumstances and emotions that were propelling us forward—friends, community, the particular property we’d found—and while all of those things were, and still are, important, I wasn’t quite sure they would ever be enough to offer the sense of belonging we need and want in the place we call home. The food and the fire.
I was wrong. It holds all that and much more, and with each coming and going the feeling of home grows stronger and stronger, and though the sadness that lives at the edges of those occasions will never go away entirely, it bolsters the memories of our time together and that is what makes home so enduring and special.
Love you kids. Come home soon.
Mom and Dad
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