Going home, and then coming back home again

I’d felt so homesick. And when I left the airplane and stepped into Kastrup airport tears started streaming from my face. I met my friend who was flying out two hours later and we talked about our futures and desires, just like I used to do with a natural assumption about them being infused with possibility and fulfillment.

The months of crushing disappointment, passportlessness, worry over paying the rent of a shared room in a shared flat, and fearful clinging on to the worst job I had in my life melted out of me, dripping from the plastic airport seats and unto the ground where, this being Denmark, surely someone would be paid a minimum wage of 90 DKK, having pension plan, 3 months dismissal notice and unemployment insurance, would come and clean it up with an ergonomic mop.

I turned my head from looking at my friend as I exhaled deeply, careful not not taint her radiant being with the despair I was finally able to let go of…

The city centre waited for me, free of people, open and bland. Nørreport station beautiful and shiny in its new white oval shapes, washed of the decades of pee and yeasty beer smell that used to ground it so firmly into the solitude carried by the residents of the street. There were nobody there, except for two unspoiled young guys with blond hair and delicate features on display through the new glass facades of the 7-11 shops.

How overwhelming are the silences of Copenhagen, so many of them. I wanted to go home.

Nørrebro received me with the same populousness silence as I cycled over Dronning Louises bro without battling other cyclists for the space, or needing to dodge any dogs or baby carriages. Tuesday 9pm, people where at home, I suppose. Mart and Alb’s flat in Rådmandsgade, two floors under where mine was. No place more familiar, a little table I once picked out from the neighbor’s trash and painted turquoise with a stylized pink uterus was now in their living room carrying books about photography.

As I sat across from Albus laughing and eating pasta I realized that my life wasn’t in this place anymore. So when I later went down to the basement to move my things out and into the basement of another friend, I decided to move on instead.I reduced the space I allowed for nostalgia to one box. The rest of my things I tied to the back of my bike with a scarf and made three runs to a second hand store to unload.

Three days later, deeply nourished by my mum’s TLC and the sureness and possibility I was fed by my friends I woke up 3am in my sleeping bag. I washed my face to wake myself up, and, as I left, whispered a silent goodbye to Rådmandsgade 40C, knowing I had been living there right up until now, and now I wouldn’t any more. I left the door unlocked behind me as I made it into the black streets anticipating the premature spring dawn.

My chest tight.

Until I arrived in Luthon, looked around me with my head open and drunk from sleepiness, and, surprised felt my ribcage expanding an extra inch and peace filtered from the air to my blood, and from my blood to my tissue.

Home, for now.

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