My mind raced back to saying goodbye to Wakana, my bubbly, motivated host student. With tears streaming down our faces she hugged me and said, “I miss you.” Walking down the cobblestone street of Wakana’s home to the bus stop with my suitcase, I could not believe that for our numerous differences, we had twenty more similarities. I looked back. Waving she exclaimed, “Come back soon!”
As I turned the corner, all I could think was, “I will come back.” I will come back for the Tea Ceremonies, for the art of arranging flowers, for the Karaoke, the Buddhist Temples, the Shinto Shrines, and because I knew I would miss taking off my shoes before entering a house. I will come back for the beauty of the language, the alluring quality of Tokyo at night. I will come back for the benevolence of the people.
“No.” I finally replied to the girl. “I really cannot believe “we’re going home.”
The term home seemed blurry to me in those moments. Growing up with divorced parents, I had always been embarrassed to tell people that I had two homes, and until that moment, I never understood that all a home really represents is a place where you are loved.
