It’s been a long time.
An embarrassingly long time. Too long to remember, not quite long enough to forget since I’ve been home. For me, it’s hard to go home. I’ll have anxiety all week–a little excitement, but mostly fear. Complicated emotions and memories I’d rather not remember. And other thoughts I’ll try desperately to hold on to for their joy and happiness in some sort of attempt to push out the sadness.
I miss it, too.
It’s a mystery to me that I can miss some place so much it hurts, and then dread seeing it in person.
That golden age of childhood shines a little brighter without the real-life reminders of what it really was. It’s tough to show this part of my life to friends and family who never knew me then. It’s hard to admit to myself what my upbringing was like in some ways. And it’s not something I want to discuss, analyze or have much of a conversation about.
But home haunts me. The imagery of red rock, cowboys, and ranches constantly shows up in my conversation and my writings. It’s strongly present in my morals and ethics, even without the religion. I can’t escape the truth of where I come from, but I’m not entirely comfortable with it either.
And Zed has had a full week of seeing this insanity in action. The confusion over why we’re bringing gallons of water, a cooler full of food, and bags of clothes to see my parents. (Isn’t this supposed to go the other way around?) The almost crying and the voice cracking, I’m really fun to be with this time of the year.
But he’s still here. Maybe he’ll fall in love with the red dirt without the complications. Maybe he’ll see why it’s so important to me to have some things in my life and why I can live without the others. And maybe he’ll still want to be here after we wash off the dust of this road trip.
Welp. I’m coming home.