I’m sitting in the living room of our apartment. Framed photos that L, Hubby’s father, took adorn a wall to my right. The shelves in front of me are filled with photos, books and DVDs that tell the tales of our married life. The couch on which I am strewn is covered with the blanket I gave Hubby as a gift for our first Christmas.
All around me there are mementos. An interesting word that: mementos. Items, photos, books and the like that mark those special moments in our lives that we want to remember. Moments we want to savor again and again.
A photo of a look passed between two souls finally united in marriage. A teddy bear that brings a feeling of home and security no matter where in the world you find yourself. A cookbook that opens to a favorite recipe without any coaching.
I wander through our new apartment seeking comfort from the familiar in this alien environment. The smell of fresh Jelabi from Khan wafts teasingly through the air as I approach the kitchen. I move the clock on the shelf an inch to the left: my own personal Oscar Award. I straighten the framed needlepoint cat that my grandmother made. I climb the stairs and notice the gifts that Hubby gave me last night: new memories to enjoy on future cold nights.
I realize suddenly why I am no longer homesick.
DC. The Midwest. New Delhi. An apartment in a random city doesn’t make a home. The memories do. Welcome home, Typ0.