Home.

It is hard to write snarkily while in mourning.

And it is strange to begin settling into a place only to be whisked out of it; and it is strange to return to an old home in a new iteration, parent missing.

But writing is cathartic.  Even — or especially – when difficult.

And while Portland is far away for some yet-to-be-decided period of time, it seems a good opportunity, if not a happy one, to consider a few things.  And, even, to muster some snark, that old dependable friend.

First thing:  home.  How we come to feel at home in a place, be it a city, a building, a box.  How we measure, if we can measure, what it takes to feel that transition.  Simply put, how we know when a home’s become Home.

But before all that thinky stuff.  Here is what Portland looked like, all a-bloom, three weeks ago:

Some damn fine flowers, no?

It was the bright sight of them that was starting to make Portland feel welcoming.  Maybe that’s odd.  In a place known for its capital c Community, is it a bit strange that what I at least felt made the place more familiar was simply its flora-filled streets?  Is it possible that, regardless of people, all I needed was to see some cheery plant life to think that this town could “feel like home”?

Maybe I’m oversimplifying.  But speaking of Community, let me skip ahead, admit something.  I was surprised to come home — to New York City, that is — to a huge building filled with warmth.  That’s right, naysayers, I’m fessing up:  I’ve never quite felt that this big apartment building of little living spaces was all that friendly or warm.  It’s true, what everyone likes to point out:  you can live next door to someone and not even know her name.

Then again, one set of next door neighbors not only had names but gave me presents for major holidays, for years.  Really nice presents, often handcrafted.  Right this minute, these very neighbors are only a few feet to my right, past a not-so-thick wall of concrete.  A few feet to my left, in an old jewelry box, are some of the old bracelets made specially for my neighborly, ten-year-old wrist.

Still, it always seemed that, despite the occasional above-and-beyond resident, a stack of hundreds of people was little more than that.  Sure, I always found this setup warmer, and certainly more conducive to interaction than — you guessed it — the ‘burbs.  But once we moved from a tiny tenement to a big-tall-thing, the interactions felt more superficial.  For the most part, anyhow.

So I have been pleasantly surprised — truly pleasantly, and truly surprised — to find that everyone in this building has been exceedingly warm, kind.

My dad’s favorite doorman came to the funeral, as did five or six neighbors.  Neighbors whom we’ve known but not really Known over the years have called up with homemade soup, tear-jerk cards.  Even — and this is a funny one — the latest NY Times piece on Portland’s unemployment.  (Hope I remember correctly that you live there, read the note.)

Funny, that these neighbors have proved far more neighborly than even I — a New York yeasayer — would have thought.  And funny that, amidst a dazzle of New York support, it’s the flowers in Portland, more than community, that stand out from the other coast.