I'm sorry I lost my passport. 

Nestled between the filmy plastic seats of Austrian Airlines, I shoved my bag between us, against us, for the entirety of the flight. After six months of traveling, I had grown tired of double-checking. Spoiled, you had provided it all for me, down to the very minute. Planning for months and months while I jetted from country to country and tried to understand coming home. What I was leaving, who I was going home to. At four that morning, I laid in the Frankfurt hotel counting the days till I could return. I did not want to go home. I did not want to stay there. I didn't want to have a home to go to or to leave. Travel had become my home, my nest where I could be whomever I wanted to be. I had no one to answer to, paying with my years of hosting and bussing sticky tables for tourist families and local teachers getting pizza. Your arrival signaled it was coming to an end. Sure, I bemoaned your grandfatherly opinions occasionally and despised your ability (or lack thereof) to drive our rental car through the mountains of NordwestDeutschland. But truthfully, I was blessed. 

You spent hours with me in the American embassy, looking over paperwork, muttering Meine herzliche Großtochter und ihre Kopp. I am lucky. I got to America in time, with plenty of grievances, and a lot of hope. I lost my passport without losing your respect and kindness. I traveled to your home country, back to mine, so I could say I'm Sorry. I'm sorry I didn't see my home in you.