I go back to this often, the door, the blackness, the act of turning a handle. I think of what I felt before starting this journey – that I was on the edge of the precipice of something new. I think of how I have reckoned with my shadow selves, over and over. I wonder and wonder – what would I have seen behind that door, who would I have met.

Somewhere on this other side, you swallow the screams and muffle the thoughts. You wash your face, drink a sip of water, continue performing merriness. You crawl back into bed at night and put on your favourite deep sleep meditation. Your heart is still heavy, but you must sleep, because you must go to work tomorrow, you have to be pretend you’ve this other side all figured out.

But we are not from there, you see. While I have my roots there, I am curious about my ancestors. About their lives, about the country where my mother’s tongue originates from. Which is why, today, I am here. Exploring, seeking. Meandering. Adopting my husband’s history to fill the giant cavity of my own. I wish there was a name for this ache, of wanting to belong to a place, of having such intractable relations with the earth that is immovable. Is there a name for this ache? Do you understand what I mean?

I have a complicated relationship with the idea of home. For a long time, I struggled with being tethered to any one place, especially this place, where I have now found myself.

Four hours later, the concert ends, and we escape the crowd. We live close to the concert venue, so we walk back home. For once, the night is cool, it has just rained, and the breeze against my flushed skin is a welcome reprieve. I am beaming from ear to ear. I did it, I tell him. I made it through the night/