My home, with its white walls, its porches and its arches, and the view from its windows which have the city painted different every day; my home and the awful and wonderful pursuits of its five inhabitants; my home, and its proximity to my favourite places, which I walk and skateboard to; my home, where I read the ideas of authors and absorb them into mine, like Dillard’s stillness and Steinbeck’s submission and GarcÃa Márquez’s magic; my home, where I pray for teenagers, beautiful or androgynous or weak or made-up or motivated or drunk or dying or curious, however they are today; my home, where I return to breathe, talk, laugh, play pianola, wrestle like a boy, continue my life; where I will find peace after six weeks of a hot winter, after too many days away from my best friends and my toasted sandwich maker.
My home, where today I am thankful for my tangled life, my borderless ways, my unduplicated existence, my pursuit of truth, my colour and mess, my morning mist, my hope, and most of all, mi Dios, who is the only one who knows me well enough to know that I am the kind that will arrive, and why.