My first and middle right-hand fingers are encased in dried super glue as I type this. I was attempting to fix the broken-off knob on the Le Creuset butter dish, a casualty of John's over-eager kitchen cleaning. My parents just left. They were here for Sunday dinner. They brought rib-eye steaks from Homegrown and I made a salad. John brought Lulu's french bread. There was vanilla Hagen-Daäz and wine. I skunked my dad at cribbage and even managed to beat him at a hand of gin before he left, disgusted at my victory and tired of my uncomfortable chairs. As I tried to wash the crusty super glue coating away, I gazed out at Ester Dome from the kitchen window and a raven descended from above Spinach Creek into the valley below. Life was pretty perfect at that moment.
We are back in the 'banks after a spring break in Seattle. It was a good trip. Of course we didn't get to see everyone we wanted to. I didn't even stop by work (SCC to the A! I'm sorry!). But it's hard fitting in a decade worth of friends into 10 days. We stayed at Andy and Jen's, and then at Eric's for a weekend. It was hard keeping up with Theo without baby gates.
The trip kind of re-cemented in my mind how much I long to return home. Yes, home. To Seattle. Even the sidewalks of cement hold nostalgia for me. There's still snow here in Fairbanks to deal with, though we're on the sunny side of equinox to consider.
But when exactly did I stop considering Fairbanks home? I remember each Alaska Airlines flight back to Fairbanks during college, or my decade living in Seattle, I would longingly stare out the window (and it was always a window seat) and feel nostalgic about every twig and berry on the purple tundra and feel like I was cutting off a part of me by not living in Fairbanks. Every twist and turn in the Tanana River was a knife edge in my side; why don't I live here? Why am I denying myself, my soul, by not living in Alaska?
Three weeks ago when we flew over north Seattle, I experienced the same kind of longing. The red flashing light at NW 65th St and 32nd Ave NW. The neon sign of Anthony's. Shilshole. The sea. Making out Market Street and Ballard Ave. I thought I was coming home. But maybe I've been confusing the feeling of homecoming and the longing of nostalgia all these years.
I'm still not sure where home is, but home should be in the moment, when the raven floats into the valley, when I know the immediate future can't afford a ticket home to Seattle for summer, when I should plan and devise each square foot of summer garden as Theo naps in my arms. It's 30 degrees above at Chateau Perreault. Soon, it will be summer. Soon, I hope to immerse my arms in dirt and ignore the ache of my lower back as I build rudimentary raised beds of beets, kale and tomatoes in our front lawn.
It's been a year and a half since our departure from Ballard. And honestly, it doesn't even feel like two months since we left. So I'm giving Fairbanks another chance. Come on, summer. Make me forget my longing for the sea, or for a perennial bed of lavender in those temperate Seattle climes. Give me a summer full of dinners on the deck and a garden full of Lacinato kale. Make me forget the longing of Seattle spring. Because I'm tired of living in two worlds and desiring every place but my own.
