I didn’t know what to expect when I stepped off the plane at the tiny airport 15 minutes from my hometown. I think I had an idea that I would be welcomed back like nothing had ever changed, that my high school friends and I would get together again and gossip over lunch like we had for all four years of our high school careers. I imagined coming back home as though everyone else had been on ‘pause’ while my life was put into ‘fast forward’—as my life changed so quickly, as though I were a snake or some other molting animal, shedding my skin to be a new person at every interval.
I don’t think I could have imagined anything more wrong. When I stepped off of that plane, I realized quickly that everyone, not just me, had been on ‘fast forward.’ Nothing was the same, yet everything was the same.
The same hometown that used to make my skin crawl at the monotony of daily happenstances; the same houses, the same people, cars, places, things—high schoolers still hang out at the bowling alley almost religiously, the bar down the road still overflows on Saturday nights—and yet, everything has changed at the same time. I can’t describe the feeling, but if I were forced to, I’d say it feels as though one comes home to find everything in their house shifted two inches to the left. It’s not anything particularly major, but one finds themselves bumping into couches and chairs that used to be so familiar to them.
The gas prices are lower. I’m no longer in sync with my friends and their day-to-day drama—they say I’ve changed so much I’m barely the person I was only four months ago, but they’ve changed a lot too. I’ve encountered so many people in three days, friendly faces, only to find that they’ve gotten married or they’re expecting a child, or, god forbid, they’ve lost a loved one. I have immediately felt guilty for not knowing, for not keeping up with everyone like I would have, had I been home.
Things have even changed with my work family—the people I spent the most consistent time with outside of my school friends. I came to work my first day back expecting everything to pick up where it left off, to lovingly chide and tease my co-workers about something silly they had done. Our favorite pastime used to be heckling each other, and now I just feel uncomfortable. It’s not the same. Some of my favorite people quit and moved on to bigger and better job opportunities, or went back to school. New people have take their places, people that I don’t know and lack the motivation to know. My job is just a job, not a place of comfort anymore.
I guess that statement describes succinctly how I feel: My hometown is my hometown, not a place of comfort anymore. Like a pair of pants that don’t zip anymore, my hometown doesn’t quite fit me, and the reverse is also true: I don’t fit my hometown. But I can, and will, revel in the changes that come with time.
