Ghosts with Jam

Ghosts are funny things. Sometimes a ghost is an ever-lingering presence, never loud, never entirely visible, simply there. Sometimes you might think a ghost has finally left you alone when suddenly, in a dream or in a song, they slam into you, causing your head to reel and your feet to fall out from under you. Most ghosts fall somewhere in between: the ghost that only lifts its head when “Bad News” by Rilo Kiley plays but every time the song plays or the ghost that causes a slow-aching pain over the course of the week, in rain, snow, wind, or under the sun.

This morning, two ghosts haunted me. Over a scone with apricot jam and a café au lait, I couldn’t help but remember and wonder and sigh. One of my ghosts was a familiar dull pain in my stomach. He’s one that causes me to doubt myself, to go over all of my moves in my mind, trying to see what I did wrong. He likes to pop up whenever anyone says “love” or “briser” or “alone”. My other ghost is usually much easier to handle. He reminds me of flowers and being young and excited about the future. This morning, with the pink Paris light pouring through the window, he just made me think of miles and miles of ocean, uninterrupted blue stretching to the horizon.

People in Paris ask me if I’m homesick for the United States. They act so surprised when I say no, as though living abroad for a year and missing the States are tantamount to each other. If I think about it, there are small things I miss, the sun setting over the golden hills of the Palouse, for example, or the size of the sky in the West. I miss the music at Hampshire College, the way that something completely unexpected will happen in front of your dorm or on your porch in Enfield. And I miss certain people. I miss my family- my nonna, dad, mom, and little brothers. I miss Ariel and a tight circle of people at Hampshire. However, being in the States or not doesn’t really change whether I’ll miss these things or not. In Massachusetts, there is no equivalent to the Palouse. In Moscow, Idaho, there is no Eric to call at three in the morning when I’ve done something stupid or Ivàn to laugh with at parties.

The older I get (and don’t laugh, I know 20 isn’t supposed to be old, but I’ve been doing a lot of reflection this year) the more nostalgic I get for certain places and times in my life. My walls are covered with postcards from my high school graduations, pictures of Tomatlàn and Kadăn, and copies of paintings by Klimt. I have a photo to commemorate a Friday the 13th trip to Colfax, some Div III invitations, a copy of a painting from Nonna, and a watercolor from Papi in Rouen. My room is full of things I’ve seen, places I’ve been, and people I love(d). How can I be homesick in such a place? No, I’m not homesick in Paris; I just wish I could bring some of you here with me…