Coming Home
When you leave you take yourself with you
As I stepped off the plane and made my way out into the open air I found myself greeted by the cool breeze of home, I made a steady pace to the nearest taxi where I uttered the familiar words and numbers of my address.
I was still away in my head, aching for the spidery oaks and the heat that rested on my skin like a warm blanket.
We passed through traffic and my feet still lingered on the slimy rocks under crystal blue water, I was there in the moment; I could hear voices of children echo in the background.
The city sprawled before me as the taxi moved through traffic and I couldn’t help but find my old surroundings too dense, too grimy, too narrow, too old, and too gray. The faces waiting for me there were all frowning and I couldn't think of enough names to count on one hand that I was excited to see again. I thought of the sadness that comes with cutting ties and felt none of it.
The taxi moved slowly, taking me back home but the smell of patchouli I’d sprayed in my hair the night before clung to every fiber like honey to a jar, yanking me back to where I was before. Unknown, free, bereft of all the troubles that ail daily life, the relationships broken by misunderstandings, the constant need to mend something that doesn’t need mending.
Finally arriving at my flat, I met the same old stairs leading to the same old door, the smells all familiar. I walked into the living room and was blinded by the light coming in from the windows and by how big my plants had become. My black tuxie cat stretched his feet out while laying in a sun patch; a warm welcome to an otherwise cold feeling.
I sat down in the armchair and I looked around me thinking that all this will come with me when I leave; thinking that perhaps it’s time to find home elsewhere.
