hometown
[Written on the morning bus back to the city after spending two weeks in my hometown at the end of winter term.]
Last night.
Outside, it was quiet. The rain wrapped around the landscape, making it seem smaller, gentler. Inside, the lights were dim, and conversations were overlapping. Warmth came from everywhere and nowhere at once, as if it were an inherent quality of the place. It seemed to fill everyone’s body as its orange hue tainted all surfaces and reflected off the windows. The restaurant was comfortably full with people who usually remain unseen amidst our singular mundanities. The back door was held slightly open, and the damp air filtered amidst the atmosphere—a reminder of the primal world. It cannot be retained much longer before it calls for our return. We left carrying the restaurant’s warmth in the night's stillness, acoustic music leaking out the door.
This morning.
It is time for us to venture back where we came from. Solitude dooms us when we forget how to trust someone other than ourselves. It is difficult to remember that tracing back our steps does not erase our growth. It does not make us become who we were before the leap. Yet, the swallow back into oblivion does not feel less cruel or salvageable than the first time. It is easy to make the same mistakes twice. There will be other beautiful things to notice and other people to hold. The trick to surviving the passing of time—there are always things left undone, no matter how long we remain at the same place—is to rediscover the wonders of our past. Feel this singular life as it coils around itself.