September 23rd 2014
Story originally written and experienced: August 8th 2012
She said to me. Pushing op en the car door to the passenger’s seat, and inviting me to get inside.
It had been almost entire year since I had seen my mother.
And as always, she had a tupperware of homemade dumplings and 3 mini bottles of water occupying my seat as a placeholder before I got in. Always as a “surprise” and always “just in case” and always around midnight because that’s exactly when I’d always fly in.
“It’s good to be back, I missed you! I can’t believe it’s been an entire year since I’ve been home.” I said.
t o s s i n g
My traveled belongings to the backseat of the car, and giving my mom a hug.
We talked the entire way home. 45 full minutes. Followed by our traditional 2 a.m talks in the kitchen whilst eating spicy ramen noodles and catching up on just about everything as we temporarily abandoned my luggage at the door.
And the feeling was always the same.
Because the motions were the same.
Arrive at the airport. Bypass baggage claim. Wave down the mom at passenger pick up. Dumplings. Water. Water. Water. Talks talks. Enter the neighborhood. Feel nostalgic about the neighborhood. Pull into the driveway. Leave the luggage at the door. Eat noodles. Talk talk.
And then I’d put my hair in a giant bun.
Wash my face. And look at myself in the mirror.
And that’s when I knew.
That this time.
The ritual was the same. The place was the same. My complexion was the same.
Over a full year had passed since I had pressed play on my spontaneous New York adventure. And in that year:
Didn’t have a home.
Thought about pursuing a blog.
I felt like I was looking at a more poised a put together version of myself tagged with the disclaimer:
A complete and total work in progress. But in just one year—the girl is damn trying.
And then suddenly it was 2014.
And I went home again.
And even more things had changed. Many more.
That’s when I knew.
That things were different again.
But the best things stayed the same.
Even if I didn’t know they were the best.
A sense of adventure.
The necessity to meet—everyone.
The addiction to write.
But relentlessly pursuing them anyway.
And as I laid there in my twin sized bed. With images of framed memories hanging above it. I thought about this, and I thought about it a lot.
How I truly wasn’t the only one.
That most every single person that I knew. Barely knew. Or knew very well. Had a year full of episodes. Changes. Surprises.
But the complete ability to handle it all.
And I felt damn good about how far we had come.
But more so.
How far we had yet to go.
And best yet.
That we didn’t even know it yet.