Welcome Home | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

I’m waiting to cross the street on my way back home – Brooklyn, New York, when I see this woman holding 3 or 4 balloons. One of them is pink and shiny and it says “welcome home!.” She’s also holding her purse, some plastic bags and a cake. Nothing weird, we see women carrying more than they should everyday (take this anyway you want). To me, she's a perfect-happy-character from a French movie and I now have my own script for her, ready to shoot after the light is green again.

I notice that we have a lot in common and this kind of connection happens around here, as walking in Manhattan does feel like a constant déjà vu sometimes. 

Fact is, I'm  always holding a lot more than I should as well, and the way she pretends to be okay when she’s actually eating her hair that’s coming into her mouth because of the wind, just makes me feel less lonely for a second. Regardless if she seems to be a happier version of me doing all of that or not, I do wonder if someone ever looked at me like this. I wouldn't fit in a happy french character though. Make a me the not-so-manic not-so-dreamy pixie Latina girl. Considering that I might be the only soul on the block making assumptions about this woman before I cross the street, on my way to never seeing her again, I have now the rare feeling of being free of competition in the "concrete jungle where dreams are made of." Wait, if I keep wandering about I'll lose what could be her story. 

Quickly, here's what I guess: she is late and trying to find a way to check the time on her phone, that's why she keeps moving her purse up and down. She's ready to surprise someone that is coming back home. A happier version of me, clumsy and late for something important like a warm welcoming party. “He’s home again!” she must be thinking . Or maybe “she’s home again!” (honestly hoping she's gay). Or grandma’s home, or the mom, the roommie is back (as if it's possible to love your roommate in New York) but whatever it is the human connection she might have, it's gotta be a wonderful person, acknowledging it's the end of Tuesday, street's busy and she can barely stand on those shoes. 

It's noticeable– nothing will blow away the joy she has, not even if she has an itchy nose. Which would be a complete nightmare as she has no hands to deal with such a tragedy. No doubts, she's meeting a wonderful person. Maybe they’re coming home for the first time I think. Might be that she hasn't seen them for quite a while. She loves them. Likely I'm thinking this because I want her to be the perfect scenario of my own feelings and wishes. And how can I not want this when she’s so happy? 

Happy to be carrying more than she can handle, happy that she’s going I don’t know where. Happy, against the wind and her hair that keeps coming into her mouth and happy, even if it’s rush hour. She is… joy. She's pure joy. On the other side of the street I'm in black, my hair is back, no wind takes a single strand away from my ponytail. No cakes for me because my joy will come when I'm free of sugar. No balloons for me because if no one will welcome me why should I welcome someone? The happy me will learn how to be bitter and free of expectations. No happy walk back home for me, because I don't even know what the hell (or heaven) is home anymore. Is she from here?

The light is green, she’s crossing the street when suddenly the wind takes the “welcome home” balloon away from her. Up to the goddamn sky as if Jesus hasn't had enough of welcoming parties. Damn it, life! Worst or best part is, she doesn’t notice the balloon is flying away. I’m thinking maybe I should say something but she is happy as a clam and I simply… can’t. I can’t be the person who's gonna tell her something went wrong, even with all the effort she's putting into this mission. She passes by. 

I can't help but wonder about the real meaning of that balloon. I imagine the smile she opened to the store-guy next to her when she found it. I can see the store-guy wishing he would get a balloon too, because like me, her and everyone in this city, he misses someone. I can’t help but smile too. Not at her, at the wind. I'm breathing out as I realize I'm not ready for this plot twist. 

I never expect life to take away the meanings I give to things. But it does, all the time. It's not that I’m sad about it. Just sucks not to have a break from this constantly resignification the immigrant life requires. Now, it's me going back on my way home without balloons or a cake or running late. But I do let my hair down. 

Here am I. Writing about random people and random moments just to say I can’t wait to be the person she’s coming to surprise. I can't wait to surprise someone. I can't wait to welcome someone or to be welcomed. Again or for the first time. 

I’m writing about a woman and a store guy and all of us living far from the land where we were born– I won't say home though. Home is the hardest resignification. I want to give balloons to someone that is coming back. I want to come back even if it's only for those seconds I have before crossing the street. 

I miss home.