Not From Here. Yet.
I keep telling people it is my first summer in Maine. I am excited and they are excited for me. Bucket lists have been made at their numerous suggestions of places to go and things to eat. But when I really think about it this feels like my first summer in eight years. Somebody finally turned the heat on, the rainbow sprinkles taste as they should, and you can sense that the feeling of summer, that limitless feeling, has seeped into those around you. This is summer as I remember it from the first 17 years of my life.
When we moved to California my mom was excited, no more winter. She does not like to be cold. As we drove up and over the hills separating Half Moon Bay from the greater Bay Area we realized someone should have checked the weather. The temperature had dropped 20 degrees and the fog was rolling in from the water, coating our tiny coastal farm town in a wet blanket. Our endless summer dreams were squelched. Her puffy was the first thing my mom unpacked.
I grew to love the fog, to love every move and new place I got to live in growing up. The adaptability I learned that comes with switching towns and schools and friend groups is something I will always be grateful for. But I long to be from somewhere. I always feel as if I am speaking in a run-on sentence when someone asks where I am from. I never quite have the words to elegantly answer. I become a list of places that inadequately describes the impact they have had on me or the people who have made those places feel like home.
After almost a year of living in Maine I am going back to California for a friend's wedding. I expect, like most places I have lived and revisited, that something will feel off, like a pair of pants you have loved but outgrown. I am only gone for a long weekend but I will miss Maine. I will miss Thursday night contra, Friday movie and pizza night at the farm. I will miss seeing my favorite dogs and people at farmers market on Saturday. I will miss waking up Sunday morning to the smell of burnt bacon from my upstairs neighbor, a tradition he has relentlessly followed since moving in three months ago. I have formed routines here and through them community, intimacy, and a love for a place that a year ago I didn’t know about.
Maybe there really is something different about the rainbow sprinkles on the East Coast or maybe I am just finally feeling at home enough here to fully enjoy them knowing that I can do so for as many summers as I want. No surprise moves by parents just trying to do their best. No, I am here to stay, to settle, to relish in the heat while it lasts and enjoy the snow when it comes home again. I am so happy that someday, somewhere, someone will ask where I am from and will be able to say Maine.
The dedication from the book I am currently reading
“Where Wolves Don’t Die” by Anton Treuer:
For my son Caleb - the courageous.
Growth is not a springtime flood,
But a dance for all your seasons.
Play the music loud.
