"On my way home I remember only good days." --Enya, "On My Way Home"
The traffic crawled that day in the sweltering heat. The incessant beeping of horns was giving me a headache. I desperately needed to use the bathroom. The radio was playing nothing but garbage. How dare they call these today’s favorites?
Humming along to a familiar tune anyway, my mind began to wander. If the roads were not so congested, I would be approximately one hour away from the place of my parents’ residence. Also known as my home.
I don’t actually know why I felt the need to go there. Since gaining the freedom of a life of my own a few states away, I had little desire to return to the stifling place where the only space I could call my own was the bedroom with the pink walls. No, I had grown into my own person. No more living under the worried gaze of my mother or the disapproving one of my father. No living in the shadow of my older sister. You know, the one with a handsome husband and the two adorable children? I was free.
So why was I going back? It was a question that repeated itself over and over like a broken record. I bit my nails at the prospect of showing up on their doorstep without any type of warning that I was coming. How did I know they’d let me in?
I guess because in all my time as their child, I was never made to believe that there would ever be a time when their door wasn’t open to me. They never forced me to stay but there was a very good chance they would never force me to leave. And that was what I needed right now. Things were tough at the moment. My eyes stung even as I thought about him and how beautiful his cerulean eyes looked when he told me it was over.
Plus, beyond Mom’s worry and Dad’s disapproval, I found myself remembering that there were other things. Mom’s apple pie warm from the oven served with a comforting smile and a tall glass of milk. My father’s corny jokes and funny anecdotes that took the place of the soothing words that were always awkward on his tongue. Even the willingness of my sister to offer a kind word and a distraction to take my mind off my problem.
These were the things I returned to. Rather, the things I returned for. I had seen the real world and experienced both the exhilaration and scariness that came with a life of my own. Now, in the wake of life’s latest minor rejection that didn’t feel so minor after all, I felt a need to get away from it.
I was on my way home.
"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to let you in." --Robert Frost
Back to Words Index
Back to Writing Out Loud Index