Ahoy, there, and welcome to this week's update of "Saturday" the book!
On this page (page 29), India is returning home. It's Saturday evening. The skies are a deep, dark blue that fade into inky black. The windows of her house are lit up with that incandescent, comforting yellow:
BTW: Is that yellow not long for this world? What will future stories sound like? "The windows of her house were lit up with the cold, acrid, office-like glow of compact florescent bulbs, which were synonymous with feelings of warmth and home." Seems unlikely. Just sayin'.
Anyhoo, India's just getting back to the house, which has seen some turmoil in the past week but still feels like home.
That's a strange phrase, isn't it? "Feels like home." We don't really describe other places that way, do we? No one ever says, "It feels like the gym" or "It feels like the grocery store". But home isn't just a physical location. It's a place where people live alongside a lot of emotions and memories. People make emotions and memories and then those emotions and memories are like roommates. Home is complicated because the people who live there are complicated and because the act of living is also complicated.
It has as much to do with association as place. I guess that's why sometimes you can live in a place that instantly feels like home and you can live in a place that never feels like home. You can even feel at home in other people's homes. Or on the basketball court. Or inside a book.
For me, most days feel like I'm holding my breath all day long. Home is where I exhale. I'm lucky enough to have a couple of different places that feel that way. Mostly they feel that way because of the people there: