I am longing for the feeling of home,
But I do not know where that is.
It’s shattered, ripped to pieces and scattered.
My college apartment no more. Two years of finally having my own place; decorating, personalizing, inviting friends over, and then after next semester, poof.
I can’t move back into my childhood bedroom. Where the walls and bookshelves are turquoise because I insisted on making everything blue after everything was pink. Where they’re photographs of people I don’t talk to anymore and stuffed animals I’m too attached to throw away. Where there’s junk and trinkets I’ve collected over the years that I can’t even begin to sort through. Where there are clothes I’ll never wear again but for some reason haven’t donated or tossed out. Where there are books I used to spend all night reading, waiting so eagerly to purchase at the bookfair, but now gather dust. Where there are discarded dreams and lost ambitions and broken decisions of a person I no longer recognize. Where nearly all my childhood pets are gone and the house feels empty without them but I still see them, where they should be, lounging on couches, in sunspots, at a bush, chirping as I walk by and I can’t fathom how they’re gone and I’m still here and I’ll still be here, years on. Where everyone is still together and no one has left and we’re eating dinner and laughing and tomorrow held such promise and wonder.
My parents have gray hairs. They’re wrinkles in their smiles. My dad can’t play tennis as swiftly or eat certain foods because of his cholesterol. My mom doesn’t ride horses like she desires. My stepmom is isolated from her L.A. friends. Will I become them? Will I move out and only see them when I’m in town or for holidays? Will they move and my childhood home will go on the market and be bought by strangers who will change everything and one day I’ll drive by and see a family, a couple, a person watching TV where I played PlayStation, cutting grass where my sister and I had adventures and my friends played The Hunger Games, sleeping where I poured my emotions into a journal, eating dinner where I did my homework, living where I grew? Will I move into a new place and start all over again, and again, and again, never fully settling in, a constant state of impermanence, and watch while the one place I love slowly fades and hollows, the years taxing, the memories blurring until it’s just me who’s left?
I visit home. I do not stay at home. I don’t think I have a home anymore.