To Build a Home
Far too early on the morning of January 8th, I found myself drunk at Gate 26 inside JFK. I was out late the night before, and crutched on less than 1 hour of sleep and 2 bites of a stale $13 turkey and cheese, I still felt the whispers of last nights inebriety as I crossed my fingers the plane hadn’t left without me. I still have positively no clue how I even got there, but I seem to have an affinity for blacking out the night before a flight, so my subconscious must be properly trained to handle the situation at this point. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or not for the fact. Once I was safely strapped into my seat, I closed my eyes and hoped sleep would overtake me quickly. Though the plane was yet to move, I felt the tremors of motion staking me awake. When we finally began our ascent, the man next to me uttered a quick prayer and I joined him silently, though I suspect we were praying for two very different things.
It was the first time that this journey didn’t feel like a homecoming. Though the flight felt vaguely familiar, it was met with a sense of nostalgia that was as new to me as it was alarming. The view out the window enchanted me enough to ignore this small anxiety. The hard lines of mountains and canyons felt so different from the soft green patchworks of the East Coast. California is a place of its own, as I’ve come to realize the longer I’ve been away. As we got lower, I tried to pinpoint where we flew over, but the landmarks had escaped my knowledge and I doubt they will ever return. When I landed in San Diego 6 hours later, I let the idea wash over me of how I probably lost the right to call this place my home the first time I found New York to be beautiful. In doing so, I forfeited my claim.
Hailey and Sabrina came to pick me up from the airport. Sabrina had been abroad for 6 months and I hadn’t seen Hailey since that November over a year and a half ago. When I was first reunited with them, I was startled by the feeling of being greeted by strangers who I once knew in a past life. Though the feeling disappeared quickly, it was unsettling nonetheless. I texted my mom to let her know I had gotten there safely and promised to send photos. She told me to say hi to the girls and sent me pictures of her new boyfriend and the dogs. Sitting in the back of that Subaru that had been through the drive-thrus and breakups and football games right alongside us, everything seemed to fall into place.
The next day, Hailey and I went to the beach. We shared an American Spirit and buried the butt of it in the sand, the closest funeral we would have for our shared childhoods. When I laid back and let myself rest against the graininess of my favorite beach, I thought to myself how badly I wished I could stay in that moment forever, wanting to hold onto that moment like a hand. It was quiet save for the steady drift of the ocean and the hum of the mosquitoes hovering around my cheekbones. I let my eyelids fall and when they opened, Hailey was no longer beside me. I sat up and watched her in the distance walking along the shore, stopping here and there to search for seashells. Watching her make her way further down the coast, I promised to love this girl always. When she rejoined me on dry land, she passed her findings to me. I ran my fingers over the ridges of crab shells and the smooth sides of purple and gray stones. Trophies of a good day.
“I feel like I’m going through a second puberty,” she said to me later that day. We were in the hot tub near her house, and I wore a swimsuit of hers, blue and white striped. I had forgotten how warm San Diego remains in January, and attempting to pack drunk the night before didn’t help my mental checklist of necessities. We talked about her boyfriend, her favorite podcasts, her relationship with her mom. My plans post-graduation, my friend group, my anxieties. We laughed over texts from her ex, and comforted each other about the future. I made a silent promise to always find a home in her.
We had chili and cornbread with her family for dinner. Afterwards, we sat on stools and listened to her dad’s stories of Chicago and Baltimore. We brushed our teeth and read our books before bed, and she told me how happy she was in her relationship. It is so easy to be with her. Days like this make it easier to withstand the growing pains of this second round of puberty. Nobody tells you this when you’re little, but that monster under your childhood bed? It’s really just your 20s.
Our birthdays are 9 days apart. Come this summer, we will both turn 21, first me and then her. I’ll call her on the 31st and ask what she did, who she celebrated with, what she wished for, and if she felt any older. I’m sure the answer will be both yes and no. Things are changing so quickly and there is less and less to grasp onto, but I will always manage to grasp onto her, onto this day. It is a comfort to know that at the very least, I can always to cling to her, even from opposite coasts. When school wraps up and summer begins, I’ll write her a letter and send it to Orange County, or that house on Ednaleen Lane. When I move into my new apartment, the first thing I will tape to the wall of my bedroom will be the letter she wrote me on my 18th birthday, a month after my dad died. Words on paper, written by me (21) and her (17). We are growing up, together, across the country. If I were to have a sister, I wonder if this is what it would’ve been like. I surely love her like one. The first love I had to fight for, and the first love I felt was mine to hold, before any boy or girl I’ve shared a bed with.
A couple days later, Hailey, Sabrina, and I packed up the Subaru and drove up to Orange County to spend the night at Haileys apartment there. We spent the day window shopping and singing to Tears For Fears in the car. We talked about marriage and religion and the best ways to stalk people on Instagram. Her bedroom in her apartment was exactly what I imagined it to look like. Photos covered the walls, corner to corner, and I recognized myself in many of them. Us at the beach, at prom, with old friends we all outgrew. I had seen most of them before, even the ones I wasn’t in. We drank beers and shared snacks from the gas station while trying to convince Sabrina to go on a date with somebody new. We watched a lesbian comedy and when the edibles kicked in, Sabrina laughed at every joke I’m sure she only half understood. And when it was time to sleep, we all piled into Haileys full size bed, side-by-side like an army unit. I was sandwiched in the middle, yet I’ve never had an easier time falling asleep.
Making a home through people rather than a place is something I’ve learned to do since moving from California. At first, nothing scared me more. It felt disturbingly unstable, to commit yourself in that way to something so fragile, so wavering. There was a period of time when I first moved that I didn’t speak to Hailey for months. The growing pains, they got to us. I remember feeling guilty seeing photos of her on Instagram, feeling small when my mom asked me how she liked her new roommates. I remember feeling scared in the way you would when you lose your house keys. It was, essentially, the same. With time we learned to adapt to the new format of our friendship, but I will never forget the fear I had of losing her. Addresses come and go but the people you tie yourself to have a way of sticking around. I found my people, and with them I’ve found my home. With them, wherever they are, whatever bed we squeeze into, I will always have a home.
I spent my last night in San Diego with Hailey. We sat on the beach pressed up against each other and watched the sun sink below the water. She recounted moments I had missed, stories of her life in college. I could listen to her talk endlessly and be happy. The way she speaks, it manifests into pure joy. Sitting there with her, I imagined the two of us in 30 years, sharing a blanket and watching the sunset in this very spot. I’d be shocked to witness any waver in the conviction I hold for our friendship.
My return to New York left me rather apathetic. Mostly, I was excited to be back in my own room, to have a cigarette in my own bed, and cook something in my own kitchen. Halfway through my return flight, we were hit with a bout of turbulence from a storm in the Midwest. I wondered what the weather would be back in New York. I had forgotten to check before boarding and prayed the sweatshirt in my carry-on would keep me warm enough. I passed in and out of consciousness throughout the remainder of the flight. I remember being mesmerized watching the baby blues out the window fade into hues of pink and purple. It would be dark by the time I landed, and then I would still have another couple of hours on the train to suffer through before being home. We passed over a long stretch of clouds, running thickly where they hovered. I wondered where we passed. I had no way of knowing. I wondered what type of people were below, what music brings them to tears, what they might have for dinner.
The clouds stretch thinner and thinner, and soon enough it was too dark to see them at all. It felt lonely up there, but perhaps I was just homesick.
