The beauty of being an immigrant of the 70’s is the opportunity to have two places, thousands of miles apart, that feel like home.
As much as I love buildings, it’s not the physical structures that make it feel familiar. It’s the energy of the place. Glimpses of past memories spent there, shared with the familiar look on aging faces.

I went to a funeral of one of the foundation people from my childhood. A mother, a smile, a patch of the quilted memories that add to my sum total of experiences. As I sat in the back of the all too familiar church, a place where my own vows were taken, I looked at all the familiar heads and sighed with belonging. My tribe, but no blood connections. Strings woven through each of our hearts. This recognition of history without knowing specific detail. Some threads connected looser than others but the common ground literally giving us a bonded meaning.

Grief visited, through hearing the tender words of bereaved friends and family, acknowledging our own personal visits with the feeling, both past and present. A laugh on hearing about dear Patsy’s character. A glimpse into her nuclear family while enabling a brush with my own wider ‘femily’. It helped that Patsy had lived well, that she made the world a happier place with her wide smile. There was cheer in the air, in spite of the tears.

Driving through the once walked streets, flashes of houses triggering long forgotten names, I wondered what it would be like still living here, having never moved away. A ‘dad song’ popped into my mind.. and I sang the lyrics as tears rolled down my cheeks. Not tears of sadness but of gratitude and peace of my own life, well lived.

” It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, they’ll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home..”

Rest in Peace dear Patsy

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