I step off the train into Brattleboro’s darkness. It is 5:00 o’clock, but the sun had set before we reached Greenfield. I cross the road and head up Main Street. My briefcase hangs on a strap around my neck. I lift the bag of lunches (food for more than two) packed by Ruth and Beth. And I pull my suitcase behind me. What little traffic has backed up on Main disappears quickly once the train clears the crossing. I am left alone, trudging up the steep sidewalk. Dark store windows follow my progress. Even the restaurants have closed for Thanksgiving.

For reasons too tedious to enumerate, my Gay Old Soulmate and I headed different directions at Thanksgiving this year. I, back to our new home here in Brattleboro. But since I’ve only lived here a week, it doesn’t feel quite like coming home.

By the time I turn up Chestnut Hill, I feel each step of the incline in my legs and chest. It just gets steeper from here—and darker. My suitcase wheels thunderously disrupt the night silence until I stop at the door—now our door. I enter the huge, cold house. Just a few borrowed pieces of furniture huddle in a few rooms until we get ours moved. Otherwise empty.

I am sad—and feel a little sorry for myself. That passes. Silence, darkness, emptiness, and cold feel appropriate to transition. We live betwixt and between these days; not fully here, though no longer there. Loneliness opens my heart to remember that we must grow a home.

Queer folk of my generation in particular know that home is seldom given—even for those of us with embracing families. We must, like the Creator, do a new thing—fashion family in new ways. Make our homes in all places and situations.

This betwixt and between will not end suddenly at a new threshold. We will dismantle its elements and replace them slowly and inevitably. A dark companionship will displace the dark loneliness. A quiet full of the presence of each other and friends will usher out this empty silence. And a warmth of familiarity will take away the strange coldness that accompanied me through the door this evening.

Thanksgiving will return—new time, new place. This house will be our home. I put down my baggage. I sit to rest. I bow my heart in gratitude for what will be.