I sit in the recliner in my parents’ bedroom watching the leaves of the magnolia tree outside as they shiver in the breeze. The sun has set and the marine layer has rolled in from the ocean, turning the sky gray and damp. In a few minutes, I’ll run out of light to write, but I want to stay in this moment as long as I can.
Here, alone but surrounded by the familiar markers of home—my parents’ faded comforter, herbal tea from a chipped mug—I feel safe and embraced. This scenery hasn’t changed since my family moved into this house ten years ago, though I moved out long ago. I sat here at seventeen after my first major breakup, at twenty-two when I moved back in after college. Being here reminds me that, if only in some small, metaphoric sense, you can always go home again.
View original post 279 more words