I saw him again.
Nothing had changed.
He still wore his blue jeans and tucked in his t-shirt. He still wore his black belt and white sneakers. His still wore his sunglasses and baseball hat.
This was the same outfit he wore the first time I saw him. He still took small, hurried steps; arms swiftly swinging, head slightly bowed.
This is the man I now frequently see on my street.
This past week has been one of seeing new things unfold. I moved out of 532 and did not realise how much I oriented myself with regards to that space.
532 was home. 532 was the place where friends gathered in good and evil. 532 was familiar. I knew which door had to be turned a particular way to open. I knew which step of the stairs creaked. The place had a familiarity that was comforting.
I am sitting at the dinner table this morning; listening to jazz, drinking tea, and watching the rain drizzle. I am trying to become familiar with the strangeness that now accompanies my life. But, this I know; that new things get old. That I have to accept this new phase by just living it.
Living in transition, living in newness, living in change, living in the uncomfortable.
One day, the house in which I now dwell will become home. One day, I will be able to find my way with the lights turned off. That is when I will know for sure that this is home.
No one needs a map to find home.