You know how when you drive over the Lazaretto Creek Bridge and you curse the guardrails that are there for some crazy reason like protecting your life or something because they block your view of the Cockspur Lighthouse and then when you reach the top of the bridge and you see the lighthouse, especially at sunset when it looks all pretty and romantic and stuff and you think about the waving girl who used to help her brother operate the lighthouse and then you almost hit an oncoming car that is doing something really stupid, like leaving the island? . . . yeah, I love that.
As soon as I hit the Lazaretto, my blood starts pulsating, my heart beats faster, maybe I cry (Hey, I'm an emotional chick!) because it just feels right.
I've always been a big fan of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I like what Ms. Golightly says about wanting a place where she and things go together. A place that feels right. I'm not sure, because I'm an Army brat who married a Coastie (i.e. I move around a lot), but I think that she means home.
Where is home? Apparently, there's no place like it. Apparently, some people find that their greatest desire is to get back to it. Maybe we all do.
Home can be anywhere.
When you're like me and you have never been able to choose where you live, then you're lucky because you can choose the place that you call home.
The place I choose is a piece of land set apart from the world, isolated by the cut of the Atlantic Ocean. A place that is foreign, yet familiar. A place that is insensible, yet rational. A place that is beautiful, yet disquieting. A place where anyone and no one can belong.
Just remember, when you're leaving the island and crossing the bridge—easing stepping and watch out for oncoming traffic, 'cause you never know when I'll be coming home.