Today marked the fourth anniversary of my moving to the US. I remember when we came out we waited and waited and waited to be picked up by my uncle/grandfather for HOURS and eventually a few hours later I wandered back into the airport to find a phone booth or something to call and make sure they knew the time/terminal right and spotted my grandfather by one of the columns and it turned out that my uncle left him there because they couldn’t find us and he had to go back to work and so we told him and he came back four hours later and it was around this time- about 8 at night- we got to this house. And I fell asleep in the car, as as far as first moments in the US went it was pretty much a weird sleep deprived dream. And I remember when I was younger I always had this hope that one day when we moved into a house it would be one with secret passages and stuff and so when we got here I convinced myself there was a secret room or something- I’d done the same thing with the last house we’d moved into- and was really disappointed in the morning when I couldn’t find the secret place and was told it didn’t exist AND couldn’t find my way around. So I spent the first day reorienting myself from the dream-state ‘memory’ of the map of the house.

I still don’t consider this place home and don’t think I ever will. But in some strange way I’ve gotten used to being here and I’m not entirely sure I could imagine myself somewhere else right now. It wouldn’t be the same. And I certainly wouldn’t be the same.