Some Kind of Nowhere

I have random fits of being completely weirded out by the fact that I don't really have a 'home' - at least not in the traditional sense of the word.
My belongings are scattered in various suitcases, boxes, bags, and closets in cities in America, India, and now Iran.
I don't really own much of anything anymore. No real bills to manage, no space to call my own long enough to paint each room a different color, to shop for candles and rugs and all the fabulous junk I used to place purposefully about my abode.
Nothing is left, of what made me static.

It's a wonderful freedom of sorts, not being tied to any particular lease, or neighborhood, or country for that matter.
But still, it gets strange sometimes.

I'll find myself pining for the old brick buildings I had a passion for apartment hunting at in downtown Seattle where, in the last one, I would open my little wooden mailbox door to find a Seattle City Light bill and various other paper whatnots that have absolutely no meaning in a person's life other than the knowing that they're going to come and need to be paid, replied to, or shot into the recycle bin.
And, recycle bins....those lovely yellow and green solid plastic receptacles to hold the remnants of last week's dinner party drinks.
Dinner parties - and friends...all in one place, at one time; hopeless now that I've collected them from every corner of the globe rather than a one-locale life experience.
I miss them all at once instead - and then I forget them all because it's too hard - the realization that I'll not see most of them for way too long, and I fixate on the mailbox again. The (at least implied) permanence of it.

Funny, how such inane things can wrench a person's heart when they've been so absent from everyday experience for so long.

I'm not complaining - we've a lovely modern house here in Tehran full of everything I could possibly need and an extended family I love as much as my original. But then again, we're leaving back to India in seven weeks-ish and I know I will once again leave a part of myself (and my stuff) behind for the time being.

The only familiarity I can find:
I look to my right, our 'office' the dining room in our fourth floor apartment, and I see my husband typing away at his latest coded progeny and I realize that I already know in my heart that none of it matters.
No matter where we are and how scattered our life together may be, I am already home, as long as he is here.

Wherever that is.