Accompanying almost every transition between vacation and school is a disconcerting sense of homelessness. Not that I’m homeless in the sense that I don’t have a place to stay. It’s just that, well, where is home? Is it where I grew up? Because I sure don’t feel at home there. School feels an awful lot like home, but it seems unfair to my family to really call that “home”. The word deserves a special place in particular, not this vague sense of nostalgia which it currently evokes.
I’m leaning towards school as my home. Home is a place of safety and of growth, and that is where I am here.
It is strange, arriving. Ooh, I like that cadence of that sentence. It’s worth retyping.
It is strange, arriving. The snowfall which met me here, here at home, dampened more than just my socks. It seemed to have settled inside me, too, the flakes penetrating my coat, my clothing and my skin, finding its way inside and settling down on that beating thing which makes me dance and laugh and breathe and love.
And love! It flows here like milk and honey–no, like antifreeze–and it seems to take a while for it to penetrate us as we tread carefully inside from their cars. But it finds a way. Soon the snow begins to glisten and shine, turning transparent as it begins to filter away, and the valves open once more, stretching tall and wide as if waking up from a long night’s sleep–a hibernation, perhaps. The blood begins to trickle, and the first thump is such a jolt that I burst into laughter (the mere sight of an old friend may have done it).
The valves quicken and the blood is hot now, coursing freely as it remembers its old paths. Life is returning to this sluggish soul. May God bless this beautiful place.