Finding Home in Unexpected Places

I bring muddy chinos to my favorite dry-cleaners near my home in Brooklyn. The mood is quiet, and except for the splash of multi-colored thread spools perched above the old-fashioned sewing machine, the room is all white.The kind owners are from Beijing, the atmoshpere old world -- no computer, no credit cards, no noisy machines; the husbnd bows his head as you leave. Today the wife is alone, and I explain about my jeans. "I was hiking," I say remorsefully. "Can you do something? I love these pants". The wife, a petite woman with black almost-wavy hair, late- fifties, grins as she rests them on the counter, respectfully, as if silk.

"Need time," she says and nods yes. I smile and ask her if she will take vacation. She waits a minute..

"No, my son leaving." Her voice shakes.

"Going to college?" I ask.

"No," she says, "Army." Her dark eyes swell; she holds back tears. I feel my throat tighten. Having no children, I can only imagine "Army" echoes piercing in a mother's ear.

She continues, "He go California. No see." Some tears sneak out. She catches them. "But good thing. He doctor. Now work too hard."

What kind of doctor?" I ask.

She steps closer to me, tenderly cupping her hand under her breast and whispers, "breast surgeon."

Animated, I respond, "Oh, I know that job; I have had a breast surgeon."

Her eyes widen, "Yes? You?" she asks.

"Yes, me...and, with the help of doctors like your son, I am fine, " I say, as I gently touch my breast with my hand. She beams.

"My son at cancer hospital until today next week. Then go."

I hear her tears fighting to stay inside. I wish her son good luck and turn to leave.

She calls after me, "Thank you for talking."

Hmm...'thank you for talking. So this conversation was meaningful to her too, I first think. Yet, then I think, why am I surprised? She's human. We are two women, different cultures, both vulnerable, and we have shared an intimate moment. Of course our talking is important to her too. I respond emphatically, "Thank you for talking!"

Outside the afternoon sun shines brighter, and I feel a deep sense of Home. This is what happens when I travel to far-away places. I walk the streets, talk to the bus driver, map seller, barista, hang like a local in a cafe, and I feel free, so myself. High on the feeling of 'owning' this new place, always, I say to myself 'now I feel Home.' Today I am a few blocks away from where I live, and I am still traveling the world.