Since I went away to college, I’ve returned home to notice changes. At first they were small. My mother would paint one room a different color. Furniture would have changed. The living room was decorated differently. When I moved to LA, my trips back became more scarce and the changes were grander. The siding on the outside of the house was new and a different color. The downstairs bathroom was completely different, now with a brand new shower.
Upon returning there would always be a bit of an unsettling feeling inside of me. It is jarring to return somewhere that is so familiar, yet incredibly different. I began to get used to it, adapting with the changes. Now the feeling is more dreamy, whimsical even. After a long flight I can hardly believe I was just in LA, and am now standing in my childhood kitchen. It’s wonderful.
This past trip, to which I just returned from yesterday, was different from all the rest. An unscheduled, impromptu trip to be with family in a time of mourning, I hopped on a plane and was back in my hometown after only one day of planning. Months earlier, my mother had sweetly asked my permission to completely redo my old bedroom. I was fine with this, and knew she was going to take the teen angst and turn it into something beautiful and comforting. To be honest, I loved when she would update me on an accessory she found or the rug she was going to use. And I couldn’t wait to see how it turned out. I was also told that while my brother was living temporarily at home, he was occupying my old bedroom. When I returned, I would not be staying in my room.
This was the first trip where this was the case. It was strange. I stayed in my grandmother’s vacant bedroom on the first floor of our house. It wasn’t quite my taste, with pictures of Jesus and crucifixes everywhere, but it was still very cozy. It was the first time I felt like a guest in my own home. And that’s when I had the realization that this wasn’t ‘home’ anymore. That’s not very fair, actually. That house, no matter what happens to it, will always hold my childhood memories and be a home. It’s just not my current home. After a few years of living in a huge house in LA, I’ve finally settled into an apartment in a neighborhood that I love. I love the city I live in and I’m happy. It’s the first time I’ve thought of LA as my home, and it couldn’t have been timed better with the change of my childhood bedroom. All these things happened at the same time: the changing of times.
As I stirred in my grandmother’s room the first night, full of dreaded jet lag, I thought about all this. Sleeping in a different room, using a different bathroom. None of it mattered. I used to get upset when I came home to change, unable to recognize the newness of things. I always wanted everything to stay the same because that’s how I felt at home. But as the days passed, I still felt as cozy as ever. My family was still all there, we just happened to hop beds.
Maybe it was the circumstances of the trip. The overwhelming feeling of togetherness, love and comfort for each other that I felt each day. For the first time, returning to Jersey wasn’t about seeing familiarity, but feeling it. It was such a soothing thought, to know that people make the home a home.
Roaring Tiger 