“7:05 am and I throw my alarm clock accross the room.   I get up, make myself a cup of coffee before hitting the shower, pounding pavement, and clocking in. ”

I’m telling my friends how it is in the city… what my new life is like, my new routine.   I’m slowly but surely adjusting, getting familiar with what was once the unfamiliar.   I’m still not comfortable, but at least I’m no longer scared shitless. 

I had been planning this trip home for awhile now, and was genuinely looking forward to being here — all my old friends, my old hangout spots, and my family.  I thought to myself, “Yes…  a chance for me to finally feel like ME again.”  

But now that I’m here, I’m realizing I still don’t feel like “Me” at all.   My neice had a piano recital that I missed.  I never miss her recitals.   My friends have new inside jokes that I know nothing about, and my room at my  paren’ts house is now the “guest room” which couldn’t be more fitting for me — the guest. 

This trip “home” has done nothing but show me how apparent it is that I can no longer call this place “home.”  I yearn for my own bed, in my own apartment, in my own place, in my new city.   I miss my stupid 7:05 am alarm clock and my homemade coffee.   I miss my seven flights of stairs and deadbolt lock.  Although I love it here, I miss it there. 

After pullin’ my luggage from carousel four and hailing a cab on the 40 minute drive to my ‘hood, I breathe in the city air.   The peanuts, the sewer, the gas.   The overcast sky, tall buildings, and train stations.  My neighbor accross the way has the gate open and I bum rush him so I don’t have to pull out my keys.     I climb up 7 flights, open the door and plop on my bed. 

Where I belong.  

Honey, I’m home.