The Dichotomy of Mermaids
"Thank you... bread."
***
They're half fish and half woman, two things that don't mesh. In fact you can see the line in almost all of them where the woman ends and the fish begins. A creature of neither sea or land but capable of living in both worlds. An existence born of myth and belonging outside the realm of normal. Sometimes they are depicted as cartoonishly cute. Sometimes as devils to haunt dreams. And for a long time they've been the strongest representation of my life.
Born in the sea, living on land, a stranger on strange tides. Too progressive to go home, not progressive enough to find comfort in the alien city world. Caught in between, suspended, in limbo. There are nice things about both, but nothing I'd say fits me as I am. Information made me a better person, but it also locked doors behind me and left me to forge new paths.
The Mitt is full of memories, of my past and of the places that built me. My church, my farm, the intersections that I miss. How silly is that? An intersection, mundane and uninspiring, but it still evokes the thought of "home". The feeling. The familiarity and knowing I'm exactly twenty four minutes from my home. How many moments did I have at that light? Getting a call for my first job, losing a friend, stealing time with my sister all happened under the ruby glow of that one stop light. And it's ridiculous to be pulled by something like that, yet there it is all the same.
Instant homesickness.
When I go back though, it's changed. There are new buildings, new lanes, and new people. All of my former life is gone, unable to be seen again. And I am changed. I'm no longer who I was, no longer from here. This is not my home, and it doesn't feel like my home. So where is home?
I tried to find it in Boston. I tried hard. But when you only speak fish and they speak human, you have to give up pieces of yourself to fit. Back country road driving became replaced by the train commute into the city. Kindness of friends became the bitterness of strangers. It wasn't personal, that's just how the city works. You're just one of a thousand faces in the crowd.
I tried to go for walks, I tried to make friends. Some stuck, some remain and have a piece of me. Most washed out with the sea and I struggle to feel even the slightest bit of remorse for that. They were not mine, and I doubt I could have ever made them mine in decades. I walked on human legs, I had beautiful experiences, and I learned so much about the world around me. It was a place of growing pains and discovery.
There are alleys in Salem I miss. Places that feel different and beautiful that I return to in my head. Places I'm looking forward to seeing again, but that still don't feel like home. Close in some ways, but still not.
So where is home?
When we moved to the South, I could feel the change almost immediately. The sturdy maples trees are now live oaks down here, the Spanish moss hauntingly draped from branches. Palm trees and tropical fronds are everywhere. The sun is brighter and warmer here, and everywhere I look, there are colors in bold and bright life.
***
It's dark, but there's enough light to make out his face. He's looking at me. We've been talking long past when I thought he'd fall asleep. He's let me run my hands over his body and I've let the feel of his skin under my palms pour straight into my memory. Walls are lowered, and it's easy to talk with him. By contrast it makes our texting feel almost cold and distant. I want to talk about his feelings and my desires, and I want to hear the small sounds he makes when my hands soothe him. Things that cannot be captured in letters. Things that remain elusive to screens. How can I find a way to feel this more often when it's very nature eludes all the options at my disposal? The change from physical presence to a few texts a day remains one of the most difficult transitions I'm trying to master.
I am distraught, the feel of ice in my veins fighting the warmth of touching him. I can't put my finger on it, and so I just touch him. When we move to make love, I remember one of his first requests. Let it hurt if it will, and drown the ice. But it doesn't hurt, and the look of surprise on his face sends me soaring. Here is another first, and he's so drained by the end that he's no longer even reasonably coherent. Exhausted, he falls to sleep.
When I crawl back into the bed at his side, I lean on my elbow and watch him for a moment while he's lost to the world. I realize what I've been feeling, what's caused the ice. I have come to understand something fundamental. It's not just that I'm going to miss him while I'm back in my homeland. It's not just that I'll long for his arms and for his laugh.
It's budding homesickness I already feel.
Not just for him, but for them all. In the dark, beneath the sheet I lay my hand over my heart and stare at the ceiling when I lay back. It's all jumbled up inside me, like a compass that spins and spins and can't find North. I haven't even named all of the feelings here, tangled and pulsing in my chest with my heart.
Homesickness is blooming, but I can't tell for where. Some for the cabin. some for Matt and the perfect little house we have. And some for here. For him. For them. Am I really so surprised? It doesn't feel like home... I think it's becoming home, and the power in that is staggering.
***
They're half fish and half woman, two things that don't mesh. In fact you can see the line in almost all of them where the woman ends and the fish begins. A creature of neither sea or land but capable of living in both worlds. An existence born of myth and belonging outside the realm of normal. Sometimes they are depicted as cartoonishly cute. Sometimes as devils to haunt dreams. And for a long time they've been the strongest representation of my life.
Born in the sea, living on land, a stranger on strange tides. Too progressive to go home, not progressive enough to find comfort in the alien city world. Caught in between, suspended, in limbo. There are nice things about both, but nothing I'd say fits me as I am. Information made me a better person, but it also locked doors behind me and left me to forge new paths.
The Mitt is full of memories, of my past and of the places that built me. My church, my farm, the intersections that I miss. How silly is that? An intersection, mundane and uninspiring, but it still evokes the thought of "home". The feeling. The familiarity and knowing I'm exactly twenty four minutes from my home. How many moments did I have at that light? Getting a call for my first job, losing a friend, stealing time with my sister all happened under the ruby glow of that one stop light. And it's ridiculous to be pulled by something like that, yet there it is all the same.
Instant homesickness.
When I go back though, it's changed. There are new buildings, new lanes, and new people. All of my former life is gone, unable to be seen again. And I am changed. I'm no longer who I was, no longer from here. This is not my home, and it doesn't feel like my home. So where is home?
I tried to find it in Boston. I tried hard. But when you only speak fish and they speak human, you have to give up pieces of yourself to fit. Back country road driving became replaced by the train commute into the city. Kindness of friends became the bitterness of strangers. It wasn't personal, that's just how the city works. You're just one of a thousand faces in the crowd.
I tried to go for walks, I tried to make friends. Some stuck, some remain and have a piece of me. Most washed out with the sea and I struggle to feel even the slightest bit of remorse for that. They were not mine, and I doubt I could have ever made them mine in decades. I walked on human legs, I had beautiful experiences, and I learned so much about the world around me. It was a place of growing pains and discovery.
There are alleys in Salem I miss. Places that feel different and beautiful that I return to in my head. Places I'm looking forward to seeing again, but that still don't feel like home. Close in some ways, but still not.
So where is home?
When we moved to the South, I could feel the change almost immediately. The sturdy maples trees are now live oaks down here, the Spanish moss hauntingly draped from branches. Palm trees and tropical fronds are everywhere. The sun is brighter and warmer here, and everywhere I look, there are colors in bold and bright life.
***
It's dark, but there's enough light to make out his face. He's looking at me. We've been talking long past when I thought he'd fall asleep. He's let me run my hands over his body and I've let the feel of his skin under my palms pour straight into my memory. Walls are lowered, and it's easy to talk with him. By contrast it makes our texting feel almost cold and distant. I want to talk about his feelings and my desires, and I want to hear the small sounds he makes when my hands soothe him. Things that cannot be captured in letters. Things that remain elusive to screens. How can I find a way to feel this more often when it's very nature eludes all the options at my disposal? The change from physical presence to a few texts a day remains one of the most difficult transitions I'm trying to master.
I am distraught, the feel of ice in my veins fighting the warmth of touching him. I can't put my finger on it, and so I just touch him. When we move to make love, I remember one of his first requests. Let it hurt if it will, and drown the ice. But it doesn't hurt, and the look of surprise on his face sends me soaring. Here is another first, and he's so drained by the end that he's no longer even reasonably coherent. Exhausted, he falls to sleep.
When I crawl back into the bed at his side, I lean on my elbow and watch him for a moment while he's lost to the world. I realize what I've been feeling, what's caused the ice. I have come to understand something fundamental. It's not just that I'm going to miss him while I'm back in my homeland. It's not just that I'll long for his arms and for his laugh.
It's budding homesickness I already feel.
Not just for him, but for them all. In the dark, beneath the sheet I lay my hand over my heart and stare at the ceiling when I lay back. It's all jumbled up inside me, like a compass that spins and spins and can't find North. I haven't even named all of the feelings here, tangled and pulsing in my chest with my heart.
Homesickness is blooming, but I can't tell for where. Some for the cabin. some for Matt and the perfect little house we have. And some for here. For him. For them. Am I really so surprised? It doesn't feel like home... I think it's becoming home, and the power in that is staggering.
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