Home from Home

I had lived in the same house for a dozen years when I blew my family away with the news that I wanted to move 300 miles away from them. Needless to say, some of them were a tad more accepting than others.

Moving away was a big adventure for me. I'd never been away from any member of my family for more than 48 hours so moving to another city and not seeing any of them for weeks at a time was a new experience (read: freeeeeeeeedom!!).

At around the same time, my parents decided to move to a new house in the middle of nowhere. As happy as I was that I was living away from them, I resented them heavily for taking my childhood home away from me. Yes, I wasn't actually living in the house, but it was the one true home I'd had all my life... and neither a new house in BFE or the dorm I shared on the fourth floor could match up in my mind to the solace a small bedroom with a walk-in closet could bring  me.

One weekend, my dad took my key while I was sleeping and had it covered with my university mascot to surprise me. It was a silly but oddly fitting act, putting both of my homes on one surface. Afterwards, whether I was turning the lock on my new house in Florida City or swiping my keycard to get into my dorm, I'd glance at the little piece of orange and blue and sienna in my palm and think, "Oh, I'm home." It was a comforting thought that was right and wrong and consoling all at once to a girl split between two cities who honestly didn't feel at home anywhere.

It's been a while since I walked on campus (a few months in fact, when I decided to run stadiums in the middle of a roadtrip), let alone walked into a dorm. Years have passed and the orange and blue layer fades a little more every time I come to this house. And every so often when I see the scraped surface as I reach for the knob, I think, "I'm home...right?"