Home. Here.

Right after 9/11 my emotional reaction was that I could not leave New York City. It became of paramount importance to stay put as long as possible. If I left, I thought, they (who?) might not let me come back in.

I was not, of course, able to articulate that very well. I had numerous conversations with friends and family where they said, "Just come home." "You're welcome here." "Why don't you come visit?" It made me so angry. Why did they not understand? With time I understood that there was no way they could understand and I wasn't helping them any. I mostly let go of the anger. (I am terrible at letting things go. I'm trying to work on it.)

In the past couple of months several of my friends have gone through some awful stuff. They aren't my stories to tell but they've been my stories to listen to and support and help where I can manage. So often there's nothing anyone can do.

Well, wouldn't you know, I have bitten my tongue bloody on more than one occasion. At some point all I want to say is, "Come home." "Come here." "Sit by me." That's all it means, sit by me so I can keep an eye on you and feed you candy and make sure that you know that you are loved.

Just like me so many years ago, though, they know they are loved without having to sit on my ratty old couch. I have to trust that.