My life became a distributed network

Home has been on my mind lately. I don’t really think I have one in the traditional sense.

Growing up, Tulsa was obviously my home. I lived there for 18 years. The summer before college, my girlfriends and I got into mischief. We laughed hysterically. We considered our futures and loved with abandon.

I didn’t appreciate it enough then, but that was home. With those people, in that town.

I worked in Texas for nearly seven years after graduation. On my days off from the paper, I’d visit my parents at their house in Dallas, where they’d moved in retirement. Sometimes my brother would be there, too. Before settling in to watch a game or Battlestar Galactica, my father would intone solemnly: “Linda? Would you like a Momarita?” Gleefully, she’d always say yes, and I’d make them for us all. Those were great times for me.

I didn’t appreciate it enough then, but that was home. With those people. In that house.

When I moved to New York, I built a new life from scratch. The city was full of people like me, transplants who weren’t entirely satisfied where they’d been before, striving to make meaning of their lives, to figure out who they were, to chase and embrace the superlative. I found a family there. We made sense together.

I didn’t appreciate it enough then, but that was home. With those people. In that beautiful mess.

For many years now, I’ve been back in Texas. My parents are gone. Simon is gone. So many other loved ones and relationships are gone. I appreciate it now — this is not home.

So where is home? I don’t know how common this question is for adults. But here I am, wondering where I really belong.

I struggle to write about this without sounding trite. My home now is nowhere, and it is everywhere. It’s in Colorado, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, North Carolina, California, Seattle, New York, Boston, Arizona, Spain, a small handful of addresses in Texas. With those people. The ones I’ve collected over the years and hold dear.