Home?

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Re-entry is painful. Back in Brooklyn, I am slaloming around the half-emptied suitcases, the piles of dirty laundry and avoiding the sizable heap of mail. At least I have already weeded out the junk mail. I think I am depressed.
Upon our landing at Newark Airport, the custom's agent sent us on our way with a big smile: " Welcome home!" he beamed. His enthusiasm was remarkable, but as we headed to the exit and to the Taxi stand, I mused over this little greeting. Is this here really my home? I know that after five weeks in Europe, my kids certainly were glad to be back "home." I am not so sure about Mr. Pardon Me. I think he could have stayed in Europe without problems.
I mentioned the agent's remark in the cab, on the way to Brooklyn. " Do you really feel at home here?" I asked as we were being shaken in the back seat of the taxi. Without hesitation, College girl said: " I love New York City. I am so glad I am back." With that, she pulled out her cell phone to check out all the messages she got from friends over the last few weeks. It did not take long before she was happily talking away and making plans.
Moody Teen son on the other hand was more thoughtful. " I love America, but I hate New York" was his reply. I am sure he was already agonizing over the first day of school. With two more years of high school ahead of him, he has seen his sister gain an unbelievable amount of freedom away from home, while he is still living with Mom and Dad. I understand him. I was the second child too. I know he needs the freedom that only a life outside a big city offers. He seems happiest when the wind blows through his hair while he maneuvers his scooter around country roads. A young Peter Fonda in "Easy Rider." But he feels a deep attachement to this country.
Yes, I thought to myself, this here is home for my kids. After all, they were born right here in Brooklyn. First generation Americans on my side, third or fourth generation Brooklynites on their father's side.
I looked out at the window and at the road leading into the city. It was grey and dirty, the surface of the roadway was peppered with potholes. In the distance, I saw the New York City skyline, and I knew this was not home for me. Even after 32 years.
Don't get me wrong. I have a great life in this city and I love my house and my friends. I am happy that my children feel a connection to their place of birth, That is as it should be. But it will never be the place that I call home. Home is on a little hill top in the middle of France. And I am starting to count the days till next July, until I can go back.