On Homes. And Ikea.

"Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?" --Stephanie Perkins

“My parents want to go to Ikea when they come,” I told Megan, a native of the Northern Virginia area.

She looked surprised.  “Why?  Do they want to buy something?”
I shrugged.  “I assume so.”
“Don’t they have Ikeas where they are?” she asked, still confused.

I shook my head, chuckling.  “No.  This is probably the closest one to them.”

Megan stared at me in disbelief.  “You really are a country bumpkin,” she said.

I nodded, because in some ways I am.  Going home means getting caught behind horse and buggies on Sunday mornings and not needing curtains or blinds on the windows because there’s no one to see into the house.  I did grow up on a farm, sort of, and so I don’t know how to milk a cow, but corn is only fresh when we’ve picked it from the field just beyond our backyard. 

And yet somehow DC is home now too.  When my parents ask about going to Ikea, I know what the trip down I-95 South to Woodbridge will mean in terms of traffic and sheer amount of people in a way that I didn’t understand two years ago.  The people who hover within 5 miles of the speed limit on busy highways—which used to be me—now irritate me completely. 

I remember—most of the time—that I need to pull my curtains shut because people can see in and I can navigate my way with the Metro.  But really, this area has become home because people I love are here, and when I miss my first real adult home it’s about 5% for the lack of traffic and free and plentiful parking, and 95% because of the people who were there.

I’m packing for St. Maarten to go for a Caribbean vacation, but also to see my little brother and my almost sister.   It’s a strange way of traveling for me because I haven’t planned anything about what I want to do, where we’ll eat, or how we’ll get around.  I haven’t arranged for anything after my roommate Christiana—bless her—drops us off at O’dark thirty tomorrow morning. 

It’s because it’s home for Andrew and Jackie now.  It’s where they live until August of next year, and even though it’s not home the way that areas of Pennsylvania are for them, it is their current home.  They have a place that Jackie has decorated.  They have a dog.  They have friends and mopeds and local place to get drinks.

I’m excited to see my brother’s new home and also so incredibly proud of and impressed by both of them, and their ability to make a home, with only each other, thousands of miles away.   White sand and blue water, graceful, brightly colored buildings, different types of money and a different way of life are all waiting for us in St. Maarten, but in less than a week, we’ll be back.  For Andrew and Jackie, it will continue to be a way of life.

I’m not sure when my brother grew up.  But I’m pretty sure it happened. 

The ball pit is back there somewhere...

Since I’m not sure how I feel about that, but because I miss him, one last Ikea story.  A memory from my first Ikea trip when I was about kindergarten age.  We always had Ikea catalogues in our house growing up and I loved the pictures of the ball pit.  So when we decided to make the long drive to an Ikea, all I wanted to do was go and play in the ball pit while my parents shopped.  My mom dropped Andrew and I off at the kid center, but before I could dive into the balls, I realized Andrew was crying.  I remember trying to convince him that it would be fine and Mom would be right back, but instead tears ran down his face.  So I went over to the attendant, told her that my brother was crying, and could she get my mom back.  Mom says she wasn’t even up the stairs to meet my dad when she got paged. 

Maybe I should’ve given Andrew more time and actually pulled him into the balls to start playing, and he would’ve been fine. 

Either way, he’s all grown up now.