the way home

Many years ago, before I moved to England but after a colleague and his family had already emigrated, I asked him how he found driving on the opposite side of the road from the U.S.

“Are you left-handed or right-handed?” he asked.

“I’m right-handed.”

“So it’s kind of like if I asked you to learn to kick a football with your left foot,” he responded. “With practice, you could definitely do it — and potentially even do it well — but it will always be more comfortable for you to kick with your right foot.”

I loved this description, and I’ve actually used it as a metaphor for what America feels like for me. Even though I’ve now lived in America longer than I lived in Trinidad, America feels like kicking with my left foot: I’ve gotten very good at it — in fact, most people who meet me never suspect I’m not American — but being in America will never feel as comfortable to me as being in Trinidad. I’m “Trini to de bone,” as we say. Trinidad is home.

Marcus kicks with his left foot here in America too, although not quite as seamlessly. He hasn’t been here as long as I have — only twenty-one years, since we got married — which isn’t long enough for him to lose his accent or otherwise fully blend into America culture. And of course, unlike me, he left his family of origin behind to come here. His ties to England remain exceedingly strong. England is home.

Because of the pandemic, it had been four years since we were back in the UK, and when we returned I found it astonishing how much had happened since we’d left. Of course, we were there for our niece’s wedding, so somehow since the last time we’d seen her, she’d met her love and chosen to marry. But other things had also happened since we’d last been there. A beloved aunt had quite suddenly passed away. Marcus’ younger brother, Matt, and his wife Helen had their third daughter. Marcus’ youngest brother, Will, had gotten married to his love Lauren, and they’d had a baby.

Despite the pandemic making life feel like it was in a holding pattern, life had clearly marched on.

*Marcus and his brothers: from left to right, Nathan, Matt, Will.*

*Marcus’ sister Kate and her husband Nigel —* *parents of the bride*.

I was sort of stunned how much had happened since we’d returned. Since my parents live only about a mile away, and we see my sister and her family more often, the passage of time doesn’t seem as striking for me in my own family. Irrationally, I suppose I hadn’t conceived how much could happen in our absence.

“We need to come back to England more often, don’t we?” I asked Marcus when we returned. He nodded. He noticed the passing of time, too.

So, we’re trying to figure out the how we can visit Marcus’ home more frequently. It’s time.