I am breaking up with my childhood home. After 18 years of Wawa runs and late night Chinese takeout, I have to say goodbye to the small-town Jersey nest. All you are is memories that I once cherished and that once comforted me. I went to college in fast-paced Manhattan this past year and every hour spent in a crammed dorm room I ached for my home. My home with green grass, a lot of deer, a back step that creaks and a front door matt with a key that doesn't even work underneath it. I missed the normalcy of waking up in a fluffy bed with rainbow walls and light blue trim, rather a time capsule of my tastes as a pre-teen. I missed my dogs and the chirping of the birds in the morning. I missed the way the light would shine through, brightening up the room in a colorful reflection of the sunset.
Growing up here, I made friends that I had seen everyday for the past century or so. Packed into school desks and crammed into lockers, I thought we were going to be friends until forever. Seemingly unrealistic, I realized that these were not really friends, more so acquaintances to converse with to make the eight hour school day go by a little bit faster.
It's summer now, and I am back in New Jersey, my one and only home, or so I presumed. To say the least, my expectations exceeded the meek reality. I realized these things that I missed and the imaginary friends I confided in for years were just memories: unconventional, flat pieces of a past time. They were just time bombs that exploded once I left. I didn't realize my "home" had an expiration date or an ability to move until I came back expecting comfort only to be met with melancholy and nostalgia. Home wasn't singular or constant, it was ever-changing. Just like the seasons or with the whistle of window or howl of the waves, it is the same in theory, but in specificity, it is not.
I thrived in memories and the old feelings re-ignited, but I was not 13 anymore. I was never going to be in fifth grade and rejoice over Chinese food like I once did. Sure, I can sit in the same spot, drive to the same restaurant on Route 9 and eat a lot of dumplings, but that part of my life is a book that has already been published. I can re-read it all I want, but I can't edit fine, permanent print.
Now in the place I had thought I needed to move forward, I find myself missing the city I had called home for the past year. Slowly my temporary home of The Big Apple filled the sore spot of suburbia Jersey with Halal food and Alec Baldwin. I miss the small dorm room with the tap water that would turn slightly brown, fully equipped with passive aggressive roommates that loved post-it notes. I miss the coffee shop around the corner that is cheaper than Starbucks but so much better. I miss the early morning runs to 8am classes or the 4am walks of shame from frat parties. I miss the people that were my actual friends, not out of convenience, but of out of commitment.
It's not you, it's me. I grew out of you. I will always revisit you from time to time because I will never not like Chinese food or New Jersey drives, but I think it is time to part ways before this gets awkward.
