There’s a bittersweet irony that comes with reminiscing on my childhood within the walls that held most of it. Every time I leave my room I smell the sticky screams of immaturity and misunderstanding that stain the carpet we’ve been meaning to tear out. The bathroom mirror reflects the face of someone older than I remember being. Even though I’ve grown in infinite and immeasurable ways since I last lived here. There’s always going to be a pit in my chest when I stay too long.
I thought that going to school six hours away would give me a chance to melt into the mold of a girl people could adore. Despite twelve years of Catholic school telling me that everyone deserves love, I still feel broken and exceptional.
I try to tell myself to grow up and go for it. That my magic someone is waiting for me to burst like a butterfly. Blinded by daydreams, the only action I take is long drives with love songs.
I coast around the city I grew up in and miss the homes I used to be invited into. I wonder if those were the best parts of my life, omitting the journal entries and calorie counters and razor blades. I’ve driven this loop a million times and nothing looks different. I’m sixteen and sad again.
I count the days until I can leave and continue my attempt at adulthood.
Being home always makes me wonder if I’m wasting wide hips and generational wealth if I’m not sure that I want kids or a wedding?
I’ve already fucked up in a million important and irrelevant ways. Motherhood and marriage are even more unforgiving than friendship and I forgot to hug my mom goodbye. Tenderness swells like a bruise and the flight home looms ahead. There are lessons in lost love. I turn the car around and hug her tight. I got to be a kid for almost a month and it’s time to abandon angst for earnestness.
As always, you capture a special feeling—in this case, the nostalgia that comes with feeling old in childhood spaces—perfectly.