How do you deal with homesickness?

A city littered with skyscrapers, red Chinese lanterns and the salty smell of dumplings and the ocean. I lived on Discovery Bay from ages 0-3 where the only thing to “discover” were broken golf carts and an old aquarium that prompted my first word to be “tingray” for stingray. While I lived there before my frontal lobe was fully developed, I have delicate memories of eating char siu mai and wu gok for breakfast at my green plastic dinner table fit for a toddler.

The soft pork and taro melting in my toothless mouth as I hugged my father goodbye before he left for work. I remember my 3rd birthday party in the tacky humidity on the front lawn where my Rainbow Fish cake stood a splitting image of my well-loved sticky paged favorite book. The homesickness for Hong Kong is dull and faint, but I feel it. Like seeing an old friend, you don’t recognize and realizing you don’t know them anymore.  

It’s a little red dot that twinkles under the darkness of Malaysia. It’s an island dusted with riches with the smell of candied Orchids. In Singapore, I drive golden and grinning with the roof down forgetting my aching sunburns. I remember watching the chattering monkeys and catnapping trees change into mechanical suits and cold metal giants as I drive. I remember waking up for school eating warm bowls of laksa wiping the spicy soup off the corners of my mouth before running for the bus.

Moreover, remember my best friend’s 18th birthday on a boat with my closest friends jumping off the side into the lukewarm ocean, seeing who could touch the bottom first. I remember late nights under old disco balls drinking gin watching as the fractals of the lights danced over stranger’s bodies. Furthermore, I remember waking up wrapped in lazy blankets surrounded by the sounds of traffic jams. And the tender sounds of Orioles chirping.

I remember knowing I could run next door into my mother’s arms as her soft perfume of stability wavered over me. As a result, the homesickness for Singapore is cold and numbing.  Like the tiger balm my mother used to put on my mosquito bites.  

Sinking teeth into a yellow sweetness that leaves a honey-coated mouth as I tenderly wipe the escaped juice off my chin. When people ask me where they should go one time before they die my answer is always the same: Bali. Beneath the sun loved skin, my tummy was full of velvety papaya, durian and coconut. I remember sitting on the beach, legs buried in the sizzling sand, watching with a glint of anxiety as my brother and father catch waves twice the size of themselves on their freshly waxed surfboards.

My face was slathered in factor 50 sun cream as I would submerge my head under the sapphire sea bobbing back up only to grab a hot breath and to wipe the salt from my eyes. I would ride on the back of motorbikes zipping through rice paddies singing in the wind as my hair danced. Moreover, I remember diving 40 meters under. In complete tranquility, as a manta ray flew past me as I thought this is what it feels like to be alive. I remember staying up on the beach with friends to watch my favorite star drowsily fight the urge to close its eyes and turn into the star-freckled night. The homesickness of Bali is fierce and hot. Like the blistering sunburn finally settling in after getting in a cold shower.  

Watching the red buses majestically hustle through the large streets as I walk in the cold hand in hand with my mother. 

Standing outside the red lacquered door of my house with my tongue out to catch drifting snowflakes. I remember wandering down Oxford Street with my aunt admiring elegant dresses we couldn’t afford through the expensive glass. I can still smell the petrol and cold air if I try hard enough. In addition, I remember late nights in dark pubs drinking pints. Illuminated by only the bustling lights of the city outside.

I can still see the specs of white dots on hills outside the city. That remind me there are more sheep than people in Scotland. I remember my black fluffy gloves that left lint on my jeans. However, I refused to throw them away as they reminded me of my grandmother who gave them to me. The homesickness for London is gentle and faded. Like feeling fresh drops of rain on your skin but you’re too cold to enjoy them.  

I never would have thought 4 years ago I would have considered Charlottesville a home. I remember first arriving, wiping hot tears from my face as my mother left. Going back to my old life on the opposite side of the earth. Now the thought of leaving in two months makes me want to start again. I remember palpable humidity on Trin 3 being eighteen and naive before I knew I had grown up.

I danced and laughed undisturbed by locked lips and free hands around me and the stale ache in my stomach from laughing too hard. I remember my sedated body bringing me home at 6 am from sitting on rooftops. Moreover, I remember the summer I spent here dressed in sundresses and glasses drinking wine out the bottle before we sat on Madbowl. I remember raiding my roommate’s closets for the perfect pair of blue jeans blasting the 1975. The homesickness will be sharp and painful. Like your dog passing away at an old age, knowing it must happen. However, feeling the force of the grief, nonetheless. 

In conclusion, home is what you make it, it is not a location, or a person or a thing. Moreover, a collective idea of memories and familiarity. Home is warm hugs and fresh fruit. Lastly, it’s an unsettling feeling, the sickness of home. But one I love to have as it shows me, I have one. 

How do you deal with homesickness?

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