Homecoming

It’s always different, coming back.

I’m starting to wonder if the reason I like traveling so much is not just that I go far away to see new places, but that in the end, I get to come home. I’ll never forget the first time I pulled into my neighborhood after moving away from home. It was dark and the windshield of the car had a bit of fog on it that blurred the lamps along the street into huge circles of gold. I hadn’t seen my family in two months. Now that time seems so short, but back then it felt like a lifetime. Finally we turned the corner onto my street, and as if on cue, the fog cleared from the windshield and I saw the pinpricks of light that lined the front walkway up to my house, my darling home. I caught sight of my family peering out the window, and could barely contain my excitement as I extricated myself and my backpack from the front seat, threw profuse thank-you’s to the friend who had driven me, and raced up the walk to the front door. As my hand reached for the handle, I paused. I savored that moment of silence and foreignity before the familiar smells and voices and bodies overwhelmed me. Now that I was here, I could stretch out that last bit of distance as long as I wanted to. So I took a deep breath, and then finally pushed the door open. “Steffie’s home!” called a voice - did it even matter whose it was? - and suddenly I felt familiar arms pull me into a hug, and the smell of home - the conglomeration of dust in the air conditioner and chili cooking on the stove and scented cat litter and that last untraceable smell that could be described only as “home” - washed over me.

I think of that moment once in awhile, sometimes when I’m missing home particularly badly and sometimes for no reason at all. Though now, I have an even stronger memory of homecoming that overpowers it every so often and stops me in my tracks. It’s a memory of a moment I had spent weeks and months imagining - the moment I finally pushed my baggage cart out of the international terminal and caught sight of my family for the first time in five months. I was almost blinded by the lights and the rays of sunlight coming in through the high windows at the top of the hall, and I squinted down the line of people waiting pressed up against the railings for that familiar trio that was my family. Almost before I could even recognize them, I saw a mane of curls fly under the railing as my mother climbed through and ran to meet me, pulling me into a hug. It was all I could do to hold back the last of the tears I would cry that long day - though at least these were happy tears.

It’s these moments that keep me going when I’m away from home, when I’m traveling with no intent to return home any time soon, and suddenly feel that pang of longing to walk back through the door of my familiar home and join my family at the dinner table. It’s certainly gotten easier to bear since the first time I moved away, but it never really goes away.

I guess it’s true that there’s no place like home.