Home

What will I miss about this house? I want to say nothing. This is how I feel about a house: it is not home but the return-to place for the people, the dogs, the plants, the objects, the familiarity of a kitchen, the geography of a place, the exclusion of strangers, where there's light and dark, shelter. Home, on the other hand, is everything that gets into my heart. California desert and ocean are home, even the 405 to the beach and the smog-infused sunset. My children are home. Friends. The poodles. Streets in Manhattan. Familiar emotions. To be known also feels like home.

I raised my children here partly. They were 10 and 13 when we arrived like immigrants coming to lesbian land for acceptance and approval. It turned out not to be that way. New England is as cold in temperment as its winters. Theo flourished here. He made good lasting friends, did well in school, started his acting career. Rae was saved from the homophobia of Long Island but she's not an easy fit, like her mother. That's Theo's growth chart, above, from inside his closet. Rae's is at Russell's in the city. Now I'm taking that with me in a photo, so there's nothing left here that I need.