At the end of every week, I drive to pick up my sister from the college where she works over the summer, so she can be home for the weekend. Having just graduated from the same institution, it’s really strange to go back there every week. The place looks essentially the same superficially. But have you ever driven by, say, a house you no longer live in, or a playground where you used to play? It holds a different significance to you, doesn’t it?

My school was my home for four years. It holds so much history within its walls, and I’m part of that history. Coming back now, buildings I used to walk to for class, halls I used to reside in with my roommates and friends take on different shapes. Foreign shapes. The shapes they took before I first moved in there, as a timid high school graduate afraid of change.

This proves even further an understanding I’ve always had–that home isn’t made up of a physical place, but of people and thoughts and ideas. I don’t consider that campus my home anymore because none of my friends are there; none of my belongings are there. It’s a beautiful campus, of course, and I’ll always think of home when I see it. But it looks different to my eyes now. It’s become part of my past now, rather than remaining in my present. So I’ll always feel a little funny going back there, a bit out-of-place.

In this in-between time, I’m not really sure what ‘home’ is for me. Sure, I’m here in the house that I grew up in from 4th grade on, with my mother and my dog. But I’m excited to make a new one in the city somewhere. Hopefully someday soon.


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