Going home is like opening a huge present, one that you asked for vaguely in that you know what to expect but have no idea what exactly it will look like. When I go home, I know who I will see, and I often know what I will do, but I don’t know the specific moments I will experience or the special memories I will make. I take an embarrassing amount of photographs, yet I’m not embarrassed, and I spend weeks looking at them remembering and often re-feeling the way I felt when they were taken.
When I'm there, I miss it. But when I'm here, I don't. Not really. Because I know this is where I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be working at this wonderful company, constantly meeting new people, living a random and spontaneous life never knowing what the weekend might hold. I'm supposed to be sharing a bedroom, sleeping in a twin bed, staring out my window at the Potomac, eating Lean Cuisines for dinner, and getting bagels at the Brooklyn Bakery on Saturday.
It makes me sad to know that people's lives go on without me there to watch. Children grow, my sister goes to school, friends go out for dinner, Grandma watches old movies . . without me. I hate missing out. That should be my motto. Don't do anything fun or memorable without me! But it doesn't take much to qualify for that category. Because grilling out on my friends' deck, that counts. Watching Frasier reruns on the couch counts. Sitting in a driveway at midnight chatting counts. Going to Wal-Mart for toiletries almost counts. It's being with the people I love.
I like the people here. But will like ever turn to love? Or will everyone move away as soon as love knocks on the door? New Girl is gone and sucks at responding to email even though she promised she wouldn't be. Bedroommate EB moves out in two weeks, and someone else's bed moves in. And we'll be right back at 'like' again.
Pastor says to put your roots down in this transient city. Live like you're never leaving. Love like you're never leaving.