Homes I Have Made

I have found myself on the fourth floor of the library, again, looking out over the Meadows. The trees have turned yellow-green, if they haven’t turned or lost all their leaves yet. It is a cloudy day, but still the light shines forth through the clouds. It’s green, like everywhere is here, and gray, and steepled and housey and I could spend the rest of my life here. I don’t want to leave. Over and over again, my father has told me that the places that I have lived: “X is your home, Y is your home, Z and Q2 are your home, and now you can add Madrid and Edinburgh to that list. Now they’re part of you and your history.” It is the voice of my father, the ever-so-heavy, unsustainable voice of a parent whom you've come to realize is, although not infallible, right most of the time.

And indeed, Edinburgh has become my home. But I don’t want to move anymore. I want one place to become my permanent home; I'm here now, and it will be hard to leave. I'm almost sure I want Edinburgh to be my permanent home. There is a melancholy here, something that pervades deep, deep into the bones. Perhaps it is still that oppressive sense of history, dragging the city downward. But despite all that, there is something else, something enchanting, buoyant, resilient in the city - whether it's how quickly you can get into the country, the lines of the architecture along all the streets, the ever-changing weather, how nice people are here... I cannot say. It is all of the above and more.

If you're out there reading this, you were right, Anne. You were right when you told me that blustery fall day in Seal Court over a year ago when I asked about your experience in Edinburgh. Everything is true, just like you said. You probably don't even remember telling me anything other than that Edinburgh is amazing and that I should go - which is all that really matters.