I want to tell you homesickness fades. It doesn't. It just gets better at hiding.
Mine found me Tuesday on a rooftop in Bushwick, at a friend's party I didn't really want to be at. Everyone was laughing about a boss I don't have, drinking a seltzer I didn't like, and I realized I hadn't spoken my mother tongue out loud in nine days.
So I slipped to the corner of the roof, where you can see the L train crawling toward Myrtle-Wyckoff, and I called my mother.
It was 4am in Ahmedabad. She picked up on the second ring because mothers do that. I said Mummy in a normal voice and then completely fell apart.
Homesickness is a strange animal. I chose this. I love my job. I love this city that chewed me up and made me sharper. And still, some nights I would trade the whole skyline for the sound of my mother chopping onions and complaining about my father.
She didn't tell me to come home. She knows me better than that. She just talked. About the neighbor's daughter's engagement. About the mango season being good this year. About nothing, which was everything.
By the time we hung up, the L train had passed four times and my seltzer was warm.
Homesickness didn't leave. But it sat down next to me instead of on top of me, and that was enough.
I went back to the party. I hugged my friend. I stayed.
Some nights the bravest thing is just picking up the phone.
Love,