Once upon a time I was a high school senior, sitting though AP English in a concrete building situated just a few miles from the Southern California coast. It was one of those times in your life where you feel as though you’re fairly grown up because you are, after all, at the top of the heap. Only later do you actually realize that the heap is actually a small pile, but you thrive in your self-importance while ignoring the impending change in status that will follow with a move to another town for a college education.
On one particular afternoon, the teacher of this particular literature class spoke about what it meant to be “home”. The teacher went on: “you can never return home once you’ve left”. This was, of course, attached to some piece of literature but the thought resonated with me. One leaves for college, or work, or to start a new family and instantaneously, the meanings associated with what used to be “home” change.
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It’s been six years since that English teacher imparted those words of wisdom upon the class, but only recently has it really sunk in. I’ve spent the last five days at my parents’ house and I simply cannot wait to return to the city. While I enjoy the seemingly-endless amount of free food and a chance to reconnect with my local relatives, I can only handle so much.
T-minus three and a half hours until I leave for another month or three.
