"My Hometown Is a Place That Doesn't Exist"

"My Hometown Is a Place That Doesn't Exist"
by Ellena Kilgallon

My hometown is a place that doesn’t exist.

From the age of one, I’ve moved around the world more times than my fingers can count. My hometown is a series of connect-the-dots in no particular pattern.

It used to bother me that I was neither Australian nor American.

I remember gum trees and Scarborough Beach and burnt hotdogs at Christmas. I’m familiar with Fourth of July fireworks and baseball games and High School Musical.

My hometown isn’t a place – it doesn’t exist. But I remember my mother reading me Chronicles of Narnia in Sydney and in Phoenix. My late night talks with dad span a dozen years and a dozen homes. My brothers played pirates with me and then listened to my short stories in college.

Maybe I didn’t live in the same house my entire life. Maybe I have dozens of friends who have never met around the world. Maybe I’ll never stop craving the next city, the next restart. 

My hometown doesn’t exist. But I do.