Home

Home.

I am home.

In my new home.

My wee little space with its scents of varnish and fresh paint.

With its bare walls and possibilities.

The blow up mattress covered in borrowed linens, the ceiling fan quiet, spinning above my head, chuckling the air about my arms as I type.

I am sitting on said blow up mattress pretty tuckered out.

I was up at 8:30 a.m. and off to the races.

I did a quick breakfast at the family home in Cole Valley, checking in with them in regards to tomorrow’s needs–8:45 a.m. to 5:45p.m. three baby juggling festival.

That’s a bit to chew off for my first day back, but after the Burning Man nanny fest, I feel fine dipping right back into it.  Besides, the babies are staggered and I usually have a moment or a minute, rare if I get five, but sometimes three minutes is all I need, to get organized and be just a step and a half ahead of the fray.

Besides I miss my other two little monkeys.

Especially the girl.

She turns two tomorrow!

I have a little present for her and I may spoil her just a teeny, tiny, HUGE, amount.

I have missed her and am still a little uncertain how I will not have her more in my life, though, certain that I cannot do a commute to North Oakland to be with her.

It’s too much travel.

I digress.

I confirmed the nanny for the morrow and I headed out the door to the N-Judah, with a quick pit stop at Peet’s for the biggest iced coffee I could get my hands on, then onto the train.

Off at Market and Van Ness to grab a few dollars from the bank, the bank which I am planning on leaving this month, I am sick of their over the top fees, for either the San Francisco Fire Credit Union or the SF Police Credit Union.

After that I hopped a bus down to Ross.

I was thinking I was going to get some stuffs for the household and then maybe go to Target.  I don’t know that I was thinking, I think I was delaying the envitable, the getting to East Oakland and taking care of the business.

I made a phone call to John Ater and talked about some things that have been on my mind and we made a plan to meet at Cafe Flore on Wednesday.

I will be sure to wear the waterproof mascara.

Then I fled Ross, hit the BART and took it out to FruitVale.

Off and into a cab and over to Graceland.

Where I promptly noticed that the fig tree was in full on flagrant display of abundance and fruit.  I pulled down a sweet dark violet fruit streaked with faint green, broke off the stem, which oozed a sticky white syrup, then bit into the most luscious dark glamorous fig I have ever eaten.

I staggered, startled by the intense lusciousness.

Then up the stairs, into the house, and low, the kittens!

Oh, we had us a reunion.

Damn, I am going to miss those cats.

They just broke my heart with goodness.

I picked through the kitchen grabbing the few household things I had, a mug from Paris, a Tupperware from Japan Town, some laundry detergent, a couple of dish towels, a few Mason jars, and a canister of oatmeal.

I hopped upstairs and realized I had even fewer possessions in the room than I had recalled.

I really had, once again, brought the majority of my life and my belongings out to Burning Man.

“You do travel light,” he said as we sat in the window seat of Peets, the same one I had started my day with, “I have your whole life in my car.”

“Please don’t drive off,” I said with a laugh, and thought, my God, once again my life in his car.

The last time it was taking me to the airport to climb into a plane bound for Paris.

This time it was loaded with my things bound for the Sunset.

As I ascertained the packing of my things at Graceland I did think of him and how this journey, this past year, is now being closed, a perfect loop, a closing of the circle, a finishing of a cycle.

He was there at the beginning and now, here he was again at the end.

I had not thought to have his help to move, my friend whose in-law I moved into this late afternoon, early evening, was supposed to help; however, she had been unable to and at the last-minute I called him.

“Please let me know if I can help,” he said to me on the phone just days before.

“Ask him for help,” my friend said, “it’s ok to ask for help.”

And ask I did.

I had been bereft when my friend said her schedule had changed and I felt abandoned and stupid and how am I going to do this, then I heard his voice in my head, and the offer, I thought, this is how it goes.

This is how it happens.

This is the way through.

He ushered me to Paris and helped me move the last time I was leaving Graceland, who better than to close the chapter and help me start another.

“I look forward to walking on the beach with you,” he said as he left me at the house, the little stack of boxes and bins not doing a thing to dwarf the small space.

“I do too,” I said as I hugged him good-bye.

“Thank you,” I finished.

Thanking him not just for the help but for the warm envelope of his smell.

A smell that leaves me weak in the knees and sends my heart crashing about in my chest.

My, it hurts, this odd aching feeling in my breast-plate, what is that?

But the recollection of leaning into the car to pull out a bin of my things and the scent of him bamboozled me, smashed into me and I almost swooned in the waft of ginger and lemon, spicy bergamot and vertiver, a soft musk and buttery shortbread cookie sweetness, causing that pang, just there.

And I swear to God, that is what I smell on him, I have never been overcome with the smell of someone like I am with him.

I die in recollection.

“Let me know if you need anymore help,” he said in closing.

Oh I will.

It scares me to not ask for that help.

However, it is not help moving my belongings I want.

I am done moving.

I am home.

It is a moving of another kind.

The move of the heart.