25
Jun
It’s good to be home. There’s little things that you take for granted while you’re living somewhere. Everything becomes ritualistic and sometimes even mundane. It happens to the best of us. (The trick is to identify those things before you leave.) Today, I realized how wonderful it is to experience the simple things from my past:
- Open fields, open skies
- Dusty guys in t-shirts, jeans, and baseball caps
- Talking politics and economics with my papa
- Country music
- My grandmothers lip-sticked lips (and amazing hugs!)
- Nick-nacks from high school
- Sitting behind the wheel
- My mother’s cute laugh
- Mosquitos
- Unlocked doors
- Grandpa Monte’s soothing voice
- My dad’s green Culligan cup he’s been drinking pop out of since 1989
- The stars
I’m trying to put into words the feeling only home can give. Comfort. Nostalgia. Adolescence. Love. Yet there is something missing; a pining I can’t describe. My life is no longer here and I’m not the same. Here I am sitting in the house I spent the majority of my life in. I learned every curve, every sticky door knob. But tonight I found myself waiting for the alarm to go off when I walked through the door, I can’t remember where the light switches are on the wall, and even now I’m listening for a sound other than the crickets outside my window. Although, who says I’m not going to relearn those things tonight in my sleep—when the smells, sounds, and feel of the two-story brick house on Holmes Road is all around me.
