All of a sudden, I have begun venturing to unfamiliar landscapes in the hopes that there will be some resemblance of a “home” in the shadows. When all that I have that defines my name are negatives in envelopes, birthday cards and squeaky matroyshka dolls on my shelves, how am I supposed to find comfort in an American counterpart of a good bite of pelmeni when that is all that my aching belly craves? Underneath the drooping vines nestled by the roots of oak trees I hope to find a sprouting mushroom, one that won’t numb my tongue and poison my body.
My friends and I who have retained our mother tongues tend to trip on our pronounciations, but when we sit down at a Georgian restaurant or with an older generation at a dinner party, we share not only the cuisine of wider Eastern Europe, but a knowing that we will be held by each other if the sky falls in on us. Upon coming home we giggle in English and nibble on Napoleon cake.
Simultaneously, every tear on the window netting of my own apartment reminds me of places I shouldn’t be able to remember. Every blister on the top surface of my walls, painted over the decades, makes me fuss.