Belonging

As I arrived in my dad’s driveway on a Tuesday several summers ago, he was returning from the hospital in Asheville with my stepmom. She'd had hip surgery after a bad fall, followed by complications that kept her there longer than expected. I’d gone there to, hopefully, be of aid.

Usually, when I’m there, it’s a relaxed, planned visit, and for the last handful of years—pandemic excepted—my dad and I have taken trips together, mostly to places of some historical significance. since we are both history buffs. I'll be sharing about some of those past excursions in future posts here.

I wished I’d realized at an earlier age how many interests my dad and I share. He raised me from age two to eight by himself until he married my (now deceased) first stepmother. Like many kids who grew up in the 1960s and ‘70s (the decade of the highest U.S. divorce rate), I have a fractured family. This circumstance, even though it’s complicated and there’ve certainly been dark times, has given me a lot of people to spend time with and to love.

But the place where I feel the greatest sense of belonging is in the presence of my father. We call him ‘Pop’ and ‘Poppy.’

One trait Pop and I share is our curiosity which has translated into reading books that cover a variety of topics and genres. We exchange books often, and on that summer visit, he loaned me a memoir by CBS correspondent Michelle Miller. It is about her search for her mother and her explorations to determine how she fits into the world.

Knowing I love women's stories, my dad was right in recommending it to me; it's a great read. I finished it quickly, there in Pop’s presence, where I am always safe and the most myself.

The title of Miller's memoir is Belonging.

Prompt: What has been your experience of fitting or not fitting into the world? Where or with whom have you felt the greatest sense of belonging? And what does that word mean to you?

A version of this post first appeared on my Substack publication.