Notes on building a home
On Living: And other things I’m not sure how to do
I invite a close friend over for a Sunday barbecue, still holding on to summer with everything I have. It’s the first time I’ll be meeting her new partner. I want to like him, and more importantly, I want her to be happy. To prepare, I cut vegetables while my son sleeps and talk to a writer friend on the phone. She asks the question, what kind of writer are you? I say the kind that tells the truth even if it’s uncomfortable, even if it hurts. We talk about how to confront ourselves—who we are and who we want to be.
I thread fruit and vegetables one at a time onto metal skewers, creating a rainbow pattern alternating between orange pepper, mushroom, lemon, zucchini, red pepper, green pepper, purple onion, and tomato. I pour bourbon into a saucepan on the stove with adobo peppers and molasses, and I pack brown sugar into measuring cups to make barbecue sauce. I soaked navy beans overnight in a steel bowl in the fridge and slow-cooked them so they turned to velvet in your mouth.
I blend Thai coconut milk with spinach and frozen bananas and pour it into popsicle molds for my son so that he can have something green when he wakes up. I shuck corn and snap the stalks off asparagus. I slice nectarines in half and cut pineapple into spears and set everything out on the table to go on the grill. I arrange the floral cloth napkins from our wedding on the big porch table that my husband built. I sprinkle dill over sliced cucumbers and squeeze wedges of lemon over everything. I put out bowls of cold watermelon and pico de gallo that I made with the Spoon tomatoes I planted with my son. Two hours of preparation have passed, and the meal is finally ready. I say goodbye to my friend on the phone.
I wake my son and kiss his face, his hair, his hands. I sing him the good morning song, even though it’s no longer morning, because he says, mama sing. I slip my arms into a silk kimono to dress up a pair of blue Levis to look less Mom and more Woman.
My guests arrive, and I run back and forth between setting the big table on the porch to my son who is playing records in the living room to asking questions about a stranger’s life. My partner is running the grill, turning the corn and nectarines over the fire. I try to be a good host, taking an interest while also being interesting. How does one make themselves interesting? I still don’t know. I try to talk about things other than my son—music, our upcoming travel plans, dreams we once held but have now abandoned, projects we can’t afford but talk about as if we can, leaving California and searching for home, and the black walnut tree that captivates me no matter how often I look at it.
We talk and talk, and I wonder if I should be doing something else to make them feel comfortable, to make sure that they have fun. How do adults have fun? I think it comes down to connection, which I’m not sure I’m offering, so I ask them if they want to jump on the big trampoline. Their faces light up, and they’re taking off their shoes before anyone can speak. I check on my son and listen to them laughing under the dogwood tree, which is already losing its leaves. They laugh and fall into each other, and I think about how free and easy new love feels.
During the meal, I let my partner do most of the talking. He’s so much better at it than I am. He has a beautiful voice that booms in all the right places. He asks the kind of questions that make people feel heard and at ease. I listen and keep losing myself in the hydrangea tree just off the porch, its flowers already transitioning from a creamy pink to a dusty hue that is just as pretty but serves as a reminder of the passing time. I smile and try not to let myself feel sad that summer is over.
After the meal, we play records in the living room with my son. He proudly shows my friend’s boyfriend his Beatles record and gently sets it on the turntable. He takes the needle in his tiny fingers and studies the grooves in the record, then drops it down precisely where he wants it. “Twist and Shout by The Beatles,” my son says in his raspy baby voice, with elongated pauses between each word. He loves having guests over and showing them his music. He’s already better at connecting with people than I am, effortlessly sharing all of himself. I kiss his face and say, “I love you,” because those are the words that are always at the tip of my tongue. I love you. I love you. God damn, I love you.
I pack up some of the chocolate zucchini muffins I’d made for my son that afternoon for my friends and I say good night, thanks for coming. I wash up after they’ve left, wiping the counters, one, two, three strokes. I feed my son an almond butter and jelly sandwich because, out of all the food I made, all he ate was cheese and watermelon. I bathe him and put him in pajamas that cover his little feet. We read a book about space and sing a song about managing our emotions per his request.
“When we’re feeling mad like we want to roar, take a deep breath and count to four. One… Two… Three… Four…”
That’s supposed to be the end of the song, but I encourage him to let out a roar because I want him to understand the importance of not suppressing his emotions. You can manage your emotions by breathing AND you can roar. You can do both. Quiet doesn’t always mean good. Sometimes, we just have to roar. So, we both roar, pressing our foreheads together like a pact woven by sharing our truth with each other. I say good night, I love you, and he does the same.
I climb into bed, and my phone lights up with a text. It’s my friend sharing that the moment they got into their car, her partner said, "Now, that's a home.”
She couldn’t have known how much that would mean to me. I’ve spent my whole life yearning for home, grasping for it in every person and traveling the globe in search of somewhere that felt like it could hold me. My first home was my mother, but she was arrested when the cops raided our little house on Michelle Lane in the dust of California. I was three and quickly learned the folly of making a home in someone other than myself. The thing is, I’m still looking outward, still seeking and searching, asking, Where do I go? Where do I go? Where do I go? like a plea to the universe.
I haven’t found home, and maybe I never will, but I've poured my heart and soul into creating one for my son in all the ways I never had one—stability, security, safety, an endless love he can count on, my full attention, an atmosphere of play, and the space to be exactly who he is.
I’ve built a home for him and for us that shines from the inside out, and damn, it feels good.
A poem about what home…
