“You can’t go home again.” I remember when I left for college, I wrote an essay arguing against that concept. The idea that home, your place of origin, would always be a sacred place that grounded me and offered explanations to my quirky existence. But in the last week, I have found I’m terribly homesick. I’m in the home I was born in. I’m surrounded by people who have known me longer than anyone in any other chapter of my life. But, I’ve been homesick.
I cried over text to a friend that I miss my home. I miss my friends, my bed, my comforter, my clothes, my routine, my commute to work in traffic, my kitchen with my food, and I ended by crying out, I even miss my soda stream! It’s obviously got nothing to do with a desperate cry for my soda stream (although I do love it). It’s got everything to do with missing my home. Essentially, every single purchase and decision I’ve made in the last decade as carved out this little niche in my life that I call my home. I love my candy apple red bathroom, and my navy blue living room walls. The art work that speaks to me. The sense of breathing space and joy that my little corner of the world brings me. And though modest by most standards, it oozes the essence of Bonnie. And I love it. And I miss it.
And just when I thought I was going to break down and cry over… well, whatever the things are that girls cry over, my soda stream perhaps…. My best friend arrived today. She is of my old life here, and of my current life in Durham too. She’s the bridge that has stuck by me even longer than my loyal lab Luke. We sat down and talked about possibly taking a girl’s vacation next spring… (Jamaica anyone?) We gripped about the men in our lives, and professed that they are still wonderful people regardless of it all. We had some normal, and some sense of home, even when I’m miles away from the physical home I so love.
So I guess you really can’t go home again, but sometimes it travels to you.