Did you know that you can accumulate an ungodly amount of belongings in a seventeen year time span? I wasn’t aware of this unfortunate reality until this past week when I found myself packing up for the second summer in a row. Moving homes is a new experience to naive me who used to live in the same house for nearly eighteen years.
In other words, I knew no other home except for that one. It’s where I lost and welcomed loved ones, where I learned what grief and heartbreak feels like, where my sister used to chase me and beat me up, where my father used to come home and kiss my mother on the cheek, where I pretended to play librarian all by myself, where I fought with my grandmother, where I stayed up all night talking to my cousin…
It’s where I used to call home and I miss it a lot.
I miss it even more knowing that one more year in this two bedroom apartment with my sister, then I’m off on my own. Afterwards, I’ll probably move to another city for graduate school. From there, who knows where I’ll live. But one thing is certain. I can’t go back to my childhood home.
I find it funny that I can miss a place that reminds me why I am like I am today. It’s as if I’m gently touching the scab of a scar. The healing is done, but the memory remains.