NORTH STAR
THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT pauses by our row. She leans toward my two daughters as they clean up crayons and card games in preparation for arrival and asks: “Are you visiting or going home?”
“Going home,” my oldest daughter responds. A smile of anticipation ripples across her face, one that matches my own. Home. She’s never lived in Anchorage. This is her fourth visit in her nine years of life. Yes, she’s tasted king salmon fresh from the Gulf of Alaska. She’s donned heavy boots and plucked a stalk of fireweed flooded with pink flowers. But there is no constellation of everyday memories shining with snow forts or day hikes to a glacier. My daughter’s response makes me want to hug her.
“I grew up in Anchorage,” I say, clarifying what perhaps matters little to the flight attendant. “We don’t live there, but it’s where I grew up.”
“Oh, so visitors, I whisper. This is not a visit. This is a homecoming.
