home

I dream of being exactly where I am. Waking up to gray skies wrapped in light pink sheets. / I’ve replaced the cool coastal wind for pulsing still air, / Quiet boys in gray hoodies for young men in suits.

The books that have earned their place on my shelf, however, are the ones I share a history with. When I read them, I’m taken back to the places where I once lived, and the person that I was when I lived there.

Chance could have faced anywhere else, the fog rolling out to sea, the waning moon or maybe even just toward nothing at all, I walked right past his organs baking on the asphalt with a vacuum in my chest.

I find myself incredibly grateful now, finally, for things that I always should’ve been grateful for.

Your slang and your streets became familiar, and without even realizing it, I had come to call you home.

Leaving home is such a strange thing. I came to Berkeley, California, last year and told myself that I would never look back.

Unfortunately, sorority girls are observant. Like I said, there are no secrets beyond our perfectly manicured lawns and Greek letters.

Contained in that cup were East Coast strip malls, cowboy hats in 100-degree heat and homemade face masks made from linen freckled with various dogs. Inside that cup was chicken soup for the lost soul.

I went about my day carrying what felt like a dirty little secret, that I was craving a celebration I didn’t know how to ask for.

I felt like my life was now in Berkeley, where most of my friends and happiest memories reside, and coming back home felt like leaving that all behind. Home no longer felt like home.