The aeroplane I looked at this morning, was it 5 AM yet? Before sunrise anyway. Looked at it flying through the pre-dawn sky, flashing its lights, and I thought about who was in it and where they were coming from. I felt suddenly wistful; I wanted to be on that plane. Going where? I’m not sure; I’m not sure it even mattered. But going somewhere.

These years of wanderlust have left their mark. I don’t want to settle down. I don’t like having such a static identity after years of fluidity. I want to move between cultures, between sacred spaces, and reconstruct myself daily. Being an outsider is hard, but I’m realizing that it’s also the only way for me to be in really, truly in touch with myself and with people around me. That’s who I want to be. Not Indian, not Mexican, not American, not Argentine, not Mongolian, not anything but me.

What does home mean now? I am at home but am I at home? No, not really. Will I ever be at home again? I don’t know, but I have my doubts.

I think of the safe abortion poster that I woke up to in Lupita’s bedroom for so many weeks—the one she gifted me the night I left Mexico. It hangs in my cupboard now, proclaiming that “el cuerpo es la única posesión ciudadana real” (The body is the only real citizen possession). In an entirely different context, I am thinking now of how my body is truly my only citizenship, my only identity, the only thing I’m sure I belong to. It’s not always a friendly home, often not even a comfortable one, but at least it is definitely, totally mine.

As I write that, I laugh, because I can hear Mauro saying these words. These are his words, when and how did they become mine?