“Home sweet home” is more than a phrase mumbled by the oft traveler, or announced by the long laborer, or sang by the prodigal upon passing though the threshold of–irreverent of humble or grand–abode; it is a return to the crawl in need of one’s soul, a womb-like sanctuary sheltering us–in happy homes–from the world.
Mine is a Harlem co-op taking a decade to come to fruition, the seed planted on a walk to my then sixth-grader’s school, a smug development courted by black professionals and manicured courtyards announcing itself on the same block where I was going. What is this?
A place to lay roots. A span of celebration, growth and accomplishment. A legacy. From the north-facing windows and terrace my eyes follow the flow of the Harlem river. I’ve known rivers, this one, yes, syrupy sweet.
Home sweet home.
