A New Home

“How’s it going? Dad and I are so excited to hear everything!”

“It’s—it’s great.”

“Have you gone to the Empire State Building yet? Or Central Park?”

“I’ve just been a little busy…work, you know....”

The other end of the line falls quiet for a moment, before Mom launches into the newest adventures from my hometown—the elk bugling, the changing of the aspen leaves from green to vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges.

I nod along, staring at a spot on the wall.

“—and the Atkinsons next door adopted a new puppy—you’d love him, they can’t wait for you two to meet!” Mom’s bubbly voice reminds me of sprinkles on cupcakes. I haven’t found a voice like it in my new home.

“That’s great, Mom.”

“So?”

“So…what?”

“So, when are you coming back to visit? We miss you!”

“I’ll—I’ll check with work. It takes a while to earn time off.”

“Such an adult!” She laughs. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her laugh, and suddenly I’m blinking back tears.

“I have to go. Work stuff. I’ll try to call again next week.”

“Ok! Don’t forget to send us pictures of your new place!”

“Will do. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you more!”

I throw my phone to the bed as soon as I hang up. It bounces off the corner and clatters to the floor, and I promptly burst into tears.

I hate it here.

I hate the smell of cigarette smoke that leaks through the walls no matter how many candles I burn. I hate that my upstairs neighbor stomps around with what sounds like 10-pound weights on his feet. I hate the honking of the cars and the people that bump into me on the street, knocking my tea to the ground.

I know I should be grateful. A million graduates would kill for my job and I worked my ass off in my tiny mountain college to get here. I have a roof over my head and food in the fridge. But there aren’t any bugling elks in my new home. No towering aspen trees. No sweet-smelling pine needles or baby foxes pattering through the yard.

What a stupid, naive girl I was, to think I could belong here. I glare around my apartment as I wipe my tears on the back of my hand.

“Apartment” is a strong word. It’s more like a large closet, with a kitchen in one corner, the bed squeezed into another and the bathroom barely large enough to fit a tiny shower and a toilet that breaks once a month.

At least I have the patio, the only place I can handle spending more than five minutes. I was adamant about finding something at least four floors high, to dull the never-ending buzz of the city streets. I stashed a potted plant in every inch of the patio, leaving just enough room for a reading chair and a table for setting down my coffee mugs.

I walk out to the patio, sink into my reading chair, and close my eyes. I imagine the Atkinsons throwing a frisbee to their new puppy, and Mom laughing as the dog bounds around her feet. It’s evening now; Dad’s probably coming home from work, bearing his famous wide smile from a day spent educating visitors about Rocky Mountain National Park. We spent a week camping there before my departure and it featured all my favorites: Dad’s cooking, hikes to alpine lakes, millions of twinkling stars at night. 

I haven’t seen any stars in my new home.

It’s starting to get colder, and I shiver as a cold breeze ruffles my hair.

There!

I snap my eyes open and stand so quickly I almost knock over my pot full of succulents.

Another breeze rolls through and I concentrate so hard on sniffing that I barely feel the cold.

I’m at our camping spot by Louis Lake, sitting in a camp chair by the fire. Mom sits next to me, reading. Dad’s tending to the coals under the Dutch oven.

“You warm, sweetie?” Mom sets her book down.

I nod fervently, bathing in the warmth of flames in front of us. Mom smiles.

“Dinner’s ready!” calls Dad.

I jump from the chair and run over to Dad, sticking out my paper plate. He laughs and lifts the lid with the Dutch oven hook.

The scent of the lasagna washes over me and I grin as the seven layers of cheese, pasta, tomatoes and spinach fill my nose.

I look around. There, three patios to my left, sits a Dutch oven.

I’m out the door and striding three doors down the hallway before I screech to a halt. What am I doing? The people cooking probably don’t want some stupid mountain girl who floated into a big city on a cloud of too-big dreams. They’ll laugh in my face.

But it smelled so good. It smelled…like home.

I hear a whisper of Mom’s tinkling laugh and whatever resolve I have crumbles into a million pieces. I knock on the door.

“Yes?” A woman answers the door, but I don’t look at her—I’m too busy staring inside the apartment.

“I—you have a tent in your room!” I say. The bed lies on its side, leaning against the wall, to make room for the tent. Small lights hang from around the tent poles.

The woman laughs and I finally look at her. She has hair as white as snow and wrinkles around her eyes. “Yep. We do this on our moving anniversary every year.”

“Moving anniversary?”

“From Montana. Got to get our camping fix.” She winks.

I bite my lip and glance back behind her. There’s the patio, with a man leaning over the Dutch oven.

“Can I help you, dear?” she asks, smiling.

“I’m sorry. I—I just moved here, too. From Colorado, a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh? How are you liking it?”

I stare at her. Maybe she knows all I’m thinking of right now is my Dad’s smile as he tucks me into the sleeping bag, because she sighs.

“It’s a lot,” she says softly.

I nod. “That’s actually why I came over. I smelled...whatever you’re cooking out there. It just reminded me of something my dad used to cook whenever we went camping.”

“Dutch oven lasagna?” she asks.

Those three words are enough to bring tears to my ears, and I clear my throat. “It’s a camping favorite.” 

“Ours, too!” She smiles and steps to the side, gesturing to the man behind her. “Would you care to join us?”

As I dig into the cheesy layers of lasagna and laugh with my new friends under the twinkling lights of the tent, I finally feel at home.

Dedicated to my parents, and my dad's world-famous Dutch oven lasagna.