There are five reasons to go home, and it’s the same five reasons that keep me coming back, again and again. I love my school, with its rickety beds and picturesque lawns, and I love the friends and the life I have made here. But every once in a while, I go home, to the house that knows me better than any other, and I remember what it is about it that makes me love it so much.
It’s the taste of home cooked meals. It’s the way a freshly made pot of borscht burns my tongue, and the way my dad’s pasta salad melts in my mouth. It’s the taste of perfectly baked rye bread that you can only find in a bakery in Chicago’s Ukrainian village. It’s the taste of sizzling deep dish pizza from the parlor I spent my summer working at. It’s the way the water tastes, always with a hint of fruit in it, because my mom always adds a little something to get us to drink more.
It’s the feel of crisp blankets that haven’t been used in months against my cheek. It’s the way my muscles burn after going on a run with my dad, and the way the soles of my feet hurt after pounding up and down the stairs barefoot, no matter the season. It’s the way the fridge handle feels, familiar under my grip, and the way my younger brother’s thin hair feels when I thread my fingers through it, messing up his hair gel in an attempt to annoy him. It’s the way the too-tiny shower’s water feels against my face, as I try to tuck my elbows in so they don’t smack into the sides.
It’s the way our cheap brand of laundry detergent smells, and the way I can always tell what’s for dinner just by sticking my nose in the air. It’s the way I can tell that my brother used the bathroom last by the lingering scent of Axe. It’s the smell of bleach as I scrub the sink, cleaning before guests come and make the house lively. It’s the subtle way the wind carries over the smell of the lake, if it’s on a clear enough day.
Of course, it’s the sound of my parent’s footsteps as they trudge up and down the stairs, grabbing things and moving them around. It’s the sound of the doorbell, since our house always seems to be a hubbub of activity. It’s the way the old piano plays out of tune sometimes, and they way my mom, my dad, or I try to sing over it. If you’re lucky, it’s the sound of all three of us, reading off of faded sheet music and singing in harmony. It’s the sound of my dad’s guitar and his soft rock as he cooks, of my brother rapping as he showers, of my mom humming some old Ukrainian melody as she works on a pharmacy presentation. It’s the rise and fall of voices as my friends and I traipse through the house looking for something to do.
It’s the way my aunt and grandmother look as they throw their arms open and beam at me after not seeing me for a long time. It’s the way my friends’ hair has grown out, now falling past their shoulders. It’s the way my bedroom decorations still hang slightly crooked on my wall, and how I can always expect today’s newspaper sitting on the orange couch when I walk in through the back door. It’s the way I always know exactly where to put my coat and my shoes, and the way I always know where the cheese is. It’s the sight of the tree in my backyard, stretching tall and beautiful no matter if it has leaves or not. It’s the way my kitchen always gives off a warm glow, greeting me with muted reds and yellows and browns. It’s the way my favorite TV show is always on in the time zone I’m used to it being in.
Most importantly, it’s the way it makes my heart beat a little faster, and the way it and the people inside remind me of summer and warmth and sunshine. It's the way they promise many more incredible memories to come. Oh, school, don’t get me wrong – I love it here, I really, really do, but sometimes I just need to be there, too. Spring break, here I come.
