I have been keeping an online space or “blog” for my thoughts since high school. Since I believe we can’t know where we’re going if we don’t remember where we’ve been I’ve decided to start including some “Throwback Thursday” posts from previous years. A little window into my past.

“If this is a question, is maybe a lie?”
    I’m currently lounging on a couch that isn’t mine, doing my best to ignore the fact that I should be sitting at a desk taking biology notes on the function of neurons. (The slight infatuation with my physiology professor is another matter). I am taking care of a cat as old as I am in a big empty house that reminds me of my grandmother’s and wishing you were here to fill the space.

    I hadn’t been home for my birthday since that one summer. (Really there is only one inbetween, but it feels like another person experienced it, and therefore by default feels like another lifetime). I have been reading The Hours and Mrs. Dalloway as of late, reinforcing the idea that a trip to the country is just what one needs if one’s spirits are down. After handing over my car key to Miss Ruthie I boarded a bus and headed for home. Ten hours later I was sitting in a hospital waiting room unabashedly giggling so much with my mother and sister that we drew the attention of a staff member whose curiosity led him to see who was causing all of the ruckus. I guess laughter isn’t something you hear very often in that sort of environment.

    The brilliant thing about this week was that it did not go according to plan because there was no plan. There were hours of old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy when the couch was the only place keeping me from falling over, homemade chocolate cake, games of Croquet (quite disastrous ones,) hospital visits full of concerned family members, a father/daughter outing to the theater, a choir of voices singing Happy Birthday all the way from the West Coast, and enough summer rain to remind me what it’s really like to be home. Ever since I’ve left (with only my determination and a pick-up full of belongings), my concept of home has evolved into something I can no longer define.

    Browsing through a pile of cds I discovered a playlist of songs for my mother and an explanation for their inclusion on a mix cd. This one stuck out. “Winding Road- This song reminds me of how we used to always have long talks in the car while doing errands or just driving around. Now we write letters and postcards instead, but I’m always on my way home.”