going home

Going home is weird. 

uncomfortable if that’s the right word. 

It’s like it’s not the same place I used to live. 

I mean, 

I sleep in the same bedroom with the same blankets, lights, and windows, 

and I have the same pictures and racing bibs stuck up on my baby blue walls. 

but it doesn’t seem like the same room I used to share laughs in, write stories and tell secrets. 

Going home is weird. 

I mean, 

I still drive the same little blue Volkswagen beetle and make the same coffee in the same coffee maker, 

but driving, sipping my favorite beverage in my little tiny town doesn’t feel the same. It’s like I’m the tourist in a made-up neighborhood only fit for the actors playing townspeople. 

Going home is weird. 

Maybe it’s because I honestly cut most ties and bound a string around new people from other homes with doormats I have not stepped on yet, 

or maybe because I grew, and I see the world with new eyes. 

Going home is weird. 

It could be because everyone has moved forward with their lives,

and it’s strange not having the front seat to this show. 

Honestly, 

I’m not sure why going home is so weird to me. 

I know I’m not a “homebody” if that’s what it’s called or someone who fears living on their own. 

Maybe, it’s a good thing to feel this way. 

It could mean I am flourishing into the woman I am supposed to be. 

A woman who likes to see new places, learn new things and meet new people.
A woman that when she goes to the place she calls home, she sleeps in the same bed with the same blankets, lights, and windows in her room with the same pictures and racing bibs on display. 

A woman that likes to drive her little blue Volkswagen beetle and make coffee in the same coffee maker she’s always had.  

However, I still am a woman who thinks going home is weird, 

but I think I like the feeling. 

This is kinda funny,

if you think about it. 

Because now, 

when I go home, 

I am just visiting.


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