So I am home, or in Canada at my mother's at least. Out of Tokyo after four years. What is home?
This is my hometown, but not the house I grew up in, which I'd left at eighteen in any case, and which I had loathed all of my teens: the town and the family. Father dying helped a great deal, but that's baggage and we all have it.
I've lived nineteen years in this Toronto suburb, one in another, one in St. Catharines, five in Montreal, four in Tokyo, three in a Tokyo suburb, and it must be eleven in Toronto. What is home?
For my heart, it is Montreal, but the heart is a fickle thing and not amenable to sense. I have poor French, and I lived there in university for the most part. Apart from what my heart knows, I cannot call it home, and I know if I lived there again I would be broken-hearted.
Common sense tells me it is Toronto. It isn't any of the Southern Ontario towns I've lived in. Even as a youth I did not feel that they were home: too limiting. So is Toronto, though a little less. It may be a home, but there is no love lost there.
Tokyo? Or Kanto, at least? A second home, but they're never going to accept me. At best I am an odd-looking cousin. An interloper. Besides, Tokyo like Toronto is full of assholes: there are better places in both countries.
I do not have a home city. I have a family, and they are home. Where we live is just background to that. If you cannot hold yourself apart from your surroundings you are as coarse as those who cannot from their emotional state. Better to be a bit adrift than capped.