Every time I come home it feels less like home and more of a mirage of the distant past.
Too many new faces, new stores, new cars and strange additions to my sleepy little town. I guess it’s all a part of growing up, kind of like that relative you rarely see, the changes become more pronounced every time you do reunite. I no longer wish I was 8 years old sipping a Capri Sun in my soccer uniform at the Village Market checkout, or listening to Z100 hoping Elvis would answer my 1000th attempt to call-in.
I do love home, more than most maybe. But as I get closer and closer to doomsday (but really- graduation is on Friday the 13th this year!) the idea of home has become a signifier of defeat, unemployment, youth, immaturity… I don’t even know!
I’m sitting in my living room right now, on the couch where I used to conk out on waiting for Santa, with my feet up on the coffee table that I used to hide under. My parents are rattling around the kitchen, with World News Tonight on in the background- if I closed my eyes I swear I could be 10 years old again. But then I wake up, and realize I have an interview suit hanging in my closet, and a stack of resumes on my dresser.
So in a strange twist of events, my dad will be driving me around this week, only dropping me off at the train station instead of the school bus stop. Eeek!
Surely I’m not the only 20 something who feels this way?