Homesick

I'm homesick for Peru, a country that's in my blood. How can it be home too? Maybe home is more than a place. It's more than honeysuckle dripping like amber along my road. It's more than the hill in my backyard that was big enough to sled down when I was a little girl.

I thought a place became home because I allowed myself to love it. That's the way it was with Lock Haven University. Little by little, the confetti trees, the ones flowering shy pink and white, made me smile. Slowly, I let myself lift my eyes to the steep hills and the winding staircases. Eventually, I waited for the bells to chime lullabies and hymns and show tunes. I told my time by it. And then, when I left it all for home, I found myself sick for it and its moody skies.

Peru has never been that way, though. I have not been there long enough to allow anything. It's instinctive. I step off the airplane frazzled and longing for rest. The doors say, "empujar" instead of "push." The air is thick as a blanket and dripping slowly. The people have coffee-and-milk complexions.

And yet, I am home.

Yes, clocks don't matter there, and strangers kiss in greeting. Yes, lunch is at 4 pm, and we drink tea for dinner. The traffic wraps around itself. Bread is fresh every morning. The fruit is lumpy or bright or sweet, but not quite. It is all unfamiliar. Yet, I will look at my uncle (who looks just like my brother) and my aunt (who is possibly more of a perfectionist than I am, if you can believe it) and my little cousins (who are so proud of having American relatives), and I will find a place for myself, a place where I begin and end.

And when I return home to this small town home, every once in a while I will breathe deeply and catch the scent of something thick and almost sweet and I will long for home once again.