I'm writing to you from the second story of a shophouse on Joo Chiat Road in Singapore, where I've come to exchange the solitary silence of my apartment for the communal silence of a coworking space. Except I'm the only one here this afternoon so I haven't really changed anything.
Lately, I've been homesick, something I thought only happened to kids at sleepover camp. This is the hardest time of year, when school starts and the temperature should drop, but doesn't. Tell me, do you wrap yourself in a sweater at night? I have boxes of sweaters somewhere, all useless to me now. Your leaves will soon turn into their earthy rainbow of colors. But here, it is still 86 degrees and the tropical trees that I cannot name remain green.
Last night I said, "I miss home." My son hugged me and said, "This is home, Mommy." I wish I could tell you that it was a sweet moment of recognition but I snapped back, "No it isn't!" Soon I will light scented candles to mimic the smell of apple cider or pumpkin pie. But it won't be the same. Tell me, my dear, where is home? And why should I care so much about the weather or sweaters?
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