As the plane was about to land in New York, I saw a beautiful moon—it looked just like my necklace, a half crescent. “Tonight the moon is bright; everyone looks at it.” I love this line of Chinese poetry, but I don’t see homesickness in it. I don’t want to go home. Moon, I don’t want to go home. I will carry you forward with me.
Somewhere between departure and arrival, I realized that every journey rewrites what “home” means. Perhaps home is not a place that waits, but a light we bring along. The moon outside the window and the one on my necklace blurred together, and for a moment I could no longer tell which one was real.
I should write all of this down, without holding back. Behind my words, there is so much more.