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?