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We had flown in on a very small plane. And when I say small, I mean the kind of small where you can see the rivets, hear every mechanical opinion the aircraft has about the weather, and briefly consider whether you should offer to help the pilot read the map. It had propellers and maybe eight seats, depending on how generously one defined “seat.”
I was an experienced flyer, but I was not prepared for the enthusiastic bumps and bounces that occur when a tiny plane attempts to negotiate what the sky clearly intended as chaos. I spent most of the flight in a state best described as polite terror, smiling bravely while mentally drafting farewell notes to people I hadn’t spoken to since junior high.
So, when we finally landed, I was profoundly grateful to still be among the breathing.
We climbed down a long set of stairs onto the tarmac, and my attention shifted from survival to curiosity. I looked around at my “homeland.” It didn’t so much look familiar as feel familiar—like a scent you recognize but can’t place. My mother had asked me to come with her “one last time, before I die.” She had a flair for melodrama, my mother, and I had a lifelong weakness for giving in to it.
As I turned toward the airport building, I saw him through the window.
He was large—objectively imposing—but that’s not how he registered to me. Instead, I had the distinct, bewildering sense of looking at a very large teddy bear. My very large teddy bear.
During the short walk to the door, I grew increasingly frustrated that I couldn’t summon even one clear memory of him. Not a face, not a moment, not a story. And yet, when our eyes met, something deeper than memory clicked into place. I felt immediate comfort. Absolute safety. Recognition without recall.
His first words to me were shouted with delight:
“YOU are the reason I have a bad back!”
He scooped me into a bone-compressing bear hug and laughed. “I spent half my youth carrying you piggyback before you moved to the States!”
I giggled and soaked up the affection, but inside my head there was only one very articulate thought:
What? WHAT?
This was the moment I met—or re-met—my uncle. And it was the beginning of a journey that would carry me across countries, cultures, and emotions. It was a trip down a memory lane where the street signs were gone and the houses had changed—but the feeling of home was still there, waiting patiently for me to recognize it.