Going Home with a capital H becomes more & more strange. Going Home to support your best friend's family three months after her death is exhausting. Seeing your parents as people instead of parents is exhausting. Being twenty-three and on the verge of making a decision that will direct the rest of your life's paths is exhausting.
Going Home always makes me want to shrink back into my fifteen-sixteen-seventeen-year-old self, when I had all the confidence in the world & not a single doubt. I crave the love and the stability of hugs from friends I've had for over a decade.
Being twenty-three means that when I go to visit my best friend's grave, an adolescent with a too-short haircut will be watering her with a garden hose, because the grass hasn't quite grown in yet, and what was supposed to be a profound experience makes me laugh & makes my stomach turn at the same time. Close friends tell stories about her fierce love for me and I am so happy/sad that I don't know what to do next.
A post with us putting on our brave, happy faces for graduation is on its way soon. Today, I feel more like this song, bittersweet & honest.