It’s strange to be in Pittsburgh, sleeping in the room where I grew up, driving on the roads where I learned to drive. Usually, Emily is home with me, so we sleep in another room, but she had to work, so last night I laid down in the exact same spot where I spent 17 years (although on a different mattress, thankfully).
And this afternoon, I spent nearly three hours driving from one side of the city to the other, across bridges, up hills, past family homes and funeral homes. My father navigated, but sometimes I think I have a map of this city burned into my genetic code.
But it’s not home. Home is where my wife is, where we’ve lived for five years—the longest I’ve lived anywhere other than my parents’ house.