Coming back to this site feels like opening the door to a stranger’s attic, ascending the steep stairs, and rounding the corner to see the dust glitter in the sunlight. I smell the carpet, feel the warmth of the summer heat, see the tree through the round window as it scrapes its branches against the pane. But it’s not a stranger’s attic; it’s mine. And although this place belongs to me, I feel as if I am merely visiting.
Do you know how it is, to lose the right of belonging somewhere? And when that somewhere is important—crucial—to the person you used to be . . . but now you don’t belong . . . How do you come home again? Is it as simple as walking in the door and sitting down at the table?
a scribble of jo 