“Settled people die where they were born; sometimes one sees country homes in which countless generations of the same family lived. Emigrants make their homes abroad and thus make sure that at least their children will once again belong to the category of the settled people (who speak another language). An emigrant, therefore, is a temporary link, a guide who takes future generations by the hand and leads them to another, safe place, or so it appears to him.
A homeless person, on the other hand, is someone who, by accident, caprice of fate, his own fault, or the fault of his temperament, did not want – or was incapable in his childhood or early youth of forging – close and affectionate bonds with the surroundings in which he grew and matured. To be homeless, therefore, does not mean that one lives under a bridge or on the platform of a less frequented Metro station; . . . it means only that the person having this defect cannot indicate the streets, cities, or community that might be his home, his, as one is wont to say, miniature homeland.”
When I was seventeen and a half, at the point of voluntary departure, alone, for the United States, I had no idea that one becomes an immigrant (at this point in my life, long after the transition, the American usage makes more sense) for the sake of one’s children. I imagined having one child only vaguely and later (always later); I made no plans for the sake of that potential child. My understanding was that I was going to
Once I had the marvelous luck of settling in
The only strange thing was that in my dreams I was never “home.” I had many dreams about
But on Valentine’s Day 2010 I woke from a dream in which I had a home, had never been homeless, and felt loved.
Maybe because at bedtime I read,
~ Oriana ~
More typical by far have been dreams in which I understand what
A GRAY DREAM