The idea of home right now is a strange one. I’ve always called both New York and California my homes. I would be flying ‘home’ for Christmas, and then flying back across the country ‘home’ a week later. Now, when someone asks us where we’re from, I always pause. I want to say New York, but I want to say California too. I don’t necessarily want to say America at the moment, I want to specify that I’m from these places that I’m still proud of. Home had been a place on my own for so many years – a little mildewy beach house with a stream of people in and out in Santa Barbara, a brownstone in Crown Heights before it was gentrified, the tiny studio in the shiny glass tower that Brandon and I shared and made our home. Now all of those places have passed, and now just moved from one to the next to the next, but dismantled and sold off for parts. I have never doubted our decision – almost every day I wake up so grateful to be able to live this life – but that doesn’t mean that aren’t days where I wish so desperately that I could go home. Home to our home. Home to our bed. Home to where all of my clothes and mail and gear and life are all organized into one tiny little place.