As I return home from college, I am reminded of stories and memories that make up my adolescence.
I pick up my siblings from the high school I once went to, a place where I spent most of my days wondering where I’d end up and counting the seconds until I could leave. I see the parking lot, and I'm reminded of early mornings with driving instructors, breaking down, and apologizing repeatedly. I see the students sitting where I once sat, thinking the same way I did. I am reminded of old locker combinations and the stress of getting to class on time.
On Tuesdays, I am brought back to the same old bar, where I’d spent every Tuesday night at trivia with my friends and grandparents. We’d all pile into the same back booth, covered in sharpie and which remained our spot for years. “French fries and pickles.” Our order was known and is yet to change. Some things always stay the same. We’d split up into two teams, cheating, as we’d try to win both first and second place.
My room is filled with old paintings done on late nights, records that were once played on the highest volume, and old books piled up next to my bed. It was hideout after a heartache, where I’d cry and wait for my mom to comfort me after a long day. It was my haven, a place I’d run to after a late night out with friends. I’d slowly creep up the stairs, trying not to wake my family. Once I entered I felt safe. No one could get in there.
As I sit back in the driver's seat of my car, I am reminded of old songs that used to blast from my speakers. I take old routes, where I am transported to a different time and place. The band “Sales” reminds me of dark December mornings and early nights home. Memories flood back with each passing song.
The bathroom, where I’d make so many mistakes, reminds me of impulse hair decisions. It’s where I’d cut my own bangs the summer before my senior year, as I sought change. The images flood back to the time I’d accidentally dyed my hair green, crying and wishing I had left it alone, a thought that continues to pop in my mind every so often, no matter the age.
Each mess-up, each memory, and each period of my life remains home. I am easily and constantly transported to old times with each “Déjà vu” that passes. As I move on and grow, home slowly changes from one place to many. I find home in people, in places, and in myself. In the place I call home for this moment in time, I make new memories. As years pass and I continue to change, I’ll come back and reminisce like I do today, remembering what used to be, and wondering what will be.
