Inside my head

I love being over here, don’t get me wrong. There are pages in my mind on the virtues of living abroad. However, there are some yearnings that I know will never be satisfied by living the life of a gypsy. Of course, the thing I miss most is spending time with my family and friends, partaking in birthday and holiday celebrations, knowing exactly where I can go when I need a pep talk or a laugh, someone to commiserate with me or just let me lounge on their couch with them—not entertain me, just let me sit and be a part of their world. Those are the things I miss above everything else.

But every now and again I will be walking along the crowded streets in Bangkok and a memory of home will just amble across the landscape of my mind, insinuating itself amongst the flotsam and jetsam of daily living. I might be carefully watching my step so I don’t twist an ankle on the always-under-construction sidewalks or pausing to let a healthy rat scamper under a pile of nearby trash, and an image clear as day will present itself like a mirage. The honeysuckle that blooms in the front yard at my mom’s house, tangled in with the poison ivy. An afternoon on Duke of Gloucester Street—the clippety cloppety of the horse and carriage, the buzz of colonial and modern commerce, the tree I love in front of the Bowden-Armistead House. The smell of hops while driving down Route 143.

Other times I am reminded of standing upstairs in Grandma Gracie’s house. The quiet. The suffocating heat in the summer when all the windows are closed. The pretty vintage floor cloth that covers the wooden floors in the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

I find myself traveling down the five-minute road in New Kent County, passing the fields of corn and the deer standing just off the road, ready to dart into my path at any moment. The fields of red clover. The full moon rising over the shorn fields in the fall, its dazzling light palpable on crisp nights.

The forsythia also blazes in my mind, the yellow and rampant herald of early spring, sprouting out like fireworks in all directions. Hedges of them creating walls of color in the formerly bleak terrain.

Flashing through my mind occasionally are the lights of hundreds of cars speeding down I64 at night around Jefferson Avenue, approaching the now-more-often-than-not bottleneck of Hampton Roads. The twinkling tail lights, shiny and red, always make me think of Christmas shopping and crowded shopping malls.

At first I thought that it was strange that I so often recall a mere scenic snapshot of Virginia. I would have thought, instead, that little movies would be playing and re-playing themselves inside my head, reminding me of the people I know and love. Rocking Daniel on the swing on Wood Duck Lane. Walking through Waller Mill Park with Christina and Abby, waiting for Hannah to be born. Tea with the girls at the Painted Lady in Norfolk. Sitting on Grandma’s lap in her green rocking chair on 79th Street when I was five years old. Doing the tango with Justin at Buckroe Beach. Skinny dipping in the Chesapeake Bay with friends, surrounded by and scared to death of the luminescent comb jellies.

Yes, these things come back to me but not with the bittersweet potency of the Virginia scenic stills. After these reminders of home, I am left with a longing, one that I don’t get when I reminisce about all the fun gatherings and memorable times with my loved ones. Maybe it is because with computers and the telephone, letters and care packages, I am still in touch with everyone. There are still tangible reminders, emails and conversations.

But I cannot touch or see, cannot smell or hear Virginia. And that, strangely, feels like a loss.