Leaving home, going home
Last week I came home. Home to the land I knew most of my life. Home to my parents, to my sister, to my family, to my old mates.
I sometimes cry of joy when I land. I didn’t this time. I was over the moon that the sun was shinning. Coming from grey and rainy England I am extatic most times I land somewhere sunny. But coming home it’s not just about the sun. It’s about finding all the things I know so well. It’s about the ease of my native language, about my folk, about the light in the air, the familiar smells, the familiar tunes on the radio, the food I crave most of the year, the seasons, about the familiar I miss so much when I am home – my other home, in England.
I had a cracking time: I ate as much as I possibly could, I walked the town I miss so often till I dropped, I reconected with family and friends, I basked in the sunshine, I drank in as much as I could of my land as if to store it in my heart, in my pores, in my eyes, until next time.
Earlier, mum and dad dropped me to the airport. I huged them a thousand times and waved a million times after I am passed security. I sent them one more air kiss and I walked through passport control with heavy tears rolling down my face. I already miss them. Will I see them again? Will they be alrigh until we see eachother again? What if they need me? How soon can I get home again? To see them, to reassure myself that they are ok, to reassure them that I am well and happy. To spend time together, casually, with no time pressure, with no cultural difference! Until we meet again…
I am on my way now, to my love. To my other life, to my other home. With my heart ripped open once again. But in a weird way, it’s home – I can’t wait to be home again.
PS This post is inspired by Selena Ardelean’s writings, she inspired me to share my open emigrant heart, thank you Selena:)