We’re back: School, classes, Hems, work, projects; Our home away from home. If you’re not calling this place home yet and having to clarify which home you mean, you will eventually. It takes time; to grow the connection with a place that without thinking twice you call it home. Because after all, what is home anyway? Is it a house, a town, a city? Is it a block, a family, a significant other? Is it just the place you currently live? Or is it something a bit more complicated than that? Is is the feeling you get, the thoughts and the memories that cross your mind when you are there?
I found myself shuffling around , smirking, saying, “It feels good to be home,” like some darling, little, old woman finally returned to her beloved house after being pent up in a nursing home far longer that she would ever approve. I putzed around, just taking in the smells, the sights, the quirks of my house-some which only I can explain: The burnt, singed wood on a shelf in my childhood room where I once place a candle in an attempt to be adult-like during my middle school years (I had seen my sister’s room had candles), Or the tape still sticking to my walls which once held my N*sync and Shane West posters perfectly in place. I found the red wine stain on our living room carpet, now covered with a rug, where either my sister or I spilled last Christmas. Who can remember? My moms cluttered collection of pictures, articles, and newspaper clippings hanging above her work desk encompassing everything from my older sister’s 10th grade Honor Roll achievements to pictures of me as a youngster decked out in Tigger overalls. My dad’s messages, clear and precise in both handwriting and meaning, jotted across our decade old dry erase board: endearing reminders for what we would certainly forget without him. “Shakes vet apt 2:20. Pick Mom up at 3. Chinese for dinner? Love, Dad”
As much as I enjoyed every single second of sleeping in, watching the entire season of Breaking Bad during my new addiction to Netflix, spending time with family, and catching up with and going out with my best friends, a part of me is ready and happy to be home.. ergh, back I mean. Yes, the time on break flew by and I deeply needed a healthy dose of family, friends, and couch time. But four years away, a lot has changed. Not just for me but for everyone. Life back home, my life back at home is different now. After four years, whose isn’t? The memories of times spent with best friends linger on every turn I make as I drive through town. Except my best friend wasn’t home this time to make new ones. And that is OK. I’m lucky I am still close with all of my best friends from High School and I was ecstatic to have us all together again. They have and continue to make up a big part of what I call ‘home.’
Still some memories and past relationships have left reminders less cheerful and a lot more complicated than my dad’s messages scribbled on our dry erase board. These memories were once my home. They still are but it’s in a different way now. And that’s OK too.
Homes change. Relationships as we once knew them end. Friendships may rely on past memories for survival at times. But, you know what? It’s OK. We grow and change too. And as for me, I feel lucky to call two places home now, even when it does mix everyone up.