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leave me the check, I'll pay with the rest of my life
Am now officially on spring break, though it's not quite off to the slothful start I'd usually prefer. J is coming tonight to spend the weekend, which is excellent, as I have not really seen her in almost two years. Briefly last July, but only very briefly, and with many others. So cleaning, and grocery shopping, and cleaning. And a haircut, because I need one.
Sometimes I am still overwhelmed with love for my apartment. More than sometimes. It's everything I ever wanted in a place to live, old and homey and warm and bright, and I don't even want winter to end because it's made for winter, this place, for being tucked inside away from the cold. My family's house in the country, I remember, was made for summer. Cool in the ever-present shade, the back deck, the dense canvas of green all around. Mosquitoes, but then nothing is really ever perfect. Cicada-whine and birdsong, breeze through leaves, a noisy sort of silence. I loved it, and worry I could never quite go back to it. I've grown used to suburbia, to convenience. But there was New Hampshire, and nothing was convenient there, and I loved it as much if not more than my childhood home, except in the bitterness of winter.
I've been in Pennsylvania for a year and a half, and it's the longest I've been in the same place since I was eighteen. I do like it here. I love my home, I like my ridiculous, wholesome little town, I adore the city. But it does not wholly banish the homesickness, for all my old homes, for all the moving on and saying goodbye and not ever really going back, or home again.
Sometimes I am still overwhelmed with love for my apartment. More than sometimes. It's everything I ever wanted in a place to live, old and homey and warm and bright, and I don't even want winter to end because it's made for winter, this place, for being tucked inside away from the cold. My family's house in the country, I remember, was made for summer. Cool in the ever-present shade, the back deck, the dense canvas of green all around. Mosquitoes, but then nothing is really ever perfect. Cicada-whine and birdsong, breeze through leaves, a noisy sort of silence. I loved it, and worry I could never quite go back to it. I've grown used to suburbia, to convenience. But there was New Hampshire, and nothing was convenient there, and I loved it as much if not more than my childhood home, except in the bitterness of winter.
I've been in Pennsylvania for a year and a half, and it's the longest I've been in the same place since I was eighteen. I do like it here. I love my home, I like my ridiculous, wholesome little town, I adore the city. But it does not wholly banish the homesickness, for all my old homes, for all the moving on and saying goodbye and not ever really going back, or home again.