when I get on a plane, the seat I’m sitting on is my home. Home is where I am…
a listener replied during an open reading of one of my books to my question: What is home?
My mother replied very similar to the same question: What she thought was my home?
Your home? Well, it is where I, your mother, am.
I was a young person in revolutionary Mao China. My companion, comrade Zhong, who missed her family when she drove with me through this vast Chinese country for weeks, asked me about my family.
Unlike my Chinese counterpart me the postwar-influenced individual wasn’t so
family and home oriented.
Family, home, no, Comrade Zhong, I don’t need any of this. For a revolutionary, the whole world is home.
My mother has blessedly left her temporal presence on this earth and so has Mao…
Only the planes with their seats remain….
but I have flight phobia.