Standing in the Larsson kitchen on Runmarö, thinking about the word “home,” and wondering what 30 years is, or is not. Why did it seem the other night like I never left, or like we were once again in the beginning?
I fend off homesickness for my other home, America, which Åke’s father Bengt pronounces Ameerka, and YouTube throws me this lovely song by Elizabeth Cotten, Shake Sugaree.
North Carolina, where she was born, is in turn, is my father’s home. No, his second home. New York is his third.
New York is where people come when they have left their hometown, one way or another, even if you’re born there, as I was. You can’t make it “home,” quite. But it’s a fascinating department store of everything under the sun.
Åke is down in the woods fixing bicycle tires.
Something in me tries to build a case against simple happiness, like a terrorist. But something new makes no concessions. Makes tea.