Coming Home // a short piece of fiction

via

She was eighteen and life was beautiful and life was hard. Sometimes it rained and all the dust was washed away to reveal the raw scent of earth and wet grass, but sometimes it was so hot and dry that the air crackled with the weight of it. Winters were cold and passed by slowly, yet one only had to blink and it was over. Summers slipped by and autumns were lingered over, and no matter how hard she tried to stay there, to not let the last golden leaf touch the ground, it always went, but it always came too, and she realized that was life; coming and going, and the beauty in that was plain to see, but simplicity is never easy to find.

                
Ever since she had been a little girl, she had always gone on walks with her parents through the neighborhood, no matter the weather, and each day she would watch as the man on the corner sat outside in the evenings and played his guitar, softly humming to himself, the song joining in with the melody of the crickets. She would observe as the couple living in the house a couple blocks down never seemed happy and she wondered how that could be, how people who had fallen in love could fall out of it so easily and slip into a callous silence. As she got older and her hair was no longer worn in pigtails, but pulled back into a ponytail and bangs lined the side of her forehead, she still watched, breathing in their stories, quietly studying, trying to figure out what life was all about. 

                      
When she turned thirteen a boy moved into the house on the corner, and the man with his guitar disappeared, and she felt sad although she had never met him. Now whenever she walked by, the boy would smile and wave, and she would smile back, suddenly feeling awkward and shy. 

                    
When she was fourteen she cried a lot although she would have told you she was fine, but she often felt sad and did not understand why, and her parents were busy, but they told her every night they loved her. Sometimes she would walk by the boy’s house just to see his smile because whenever she saw it she felt like maybe the day was not so bad after all. And she would go to the playground by her house and sit on the swing, running her fingers along the chain, wondering why she felt so nostalgic. 

                    
Fifteen was a better year; she made new friends and poured her whole heart into loving them and being surrounded by them and spending every moment in youth groups and volleyball practices. Sometimes she would even skip the daily walks and just kiss her parents on the cheek when she came home late at night before falling into bed, too exhausted to tell them that she loved them. She always told herself that they were busy and that they understood, but she could see their sad faces in the mornings when she caught glimpses of them between busy schedules. Soon she did not walk by the house on the corner anymore, she was stretched too thin to take the time to observe the neighbors or anyone, and her journal entries were filled with the exciting things she had done with her friends. 

                     
Then came sixteen, the year she thought would bring an entirely different adventure, but instead she lost all her friends except one and cried herself to sleep just like she had when she was fourteen. And she would lie awake at night, wondering why people were such good liars and staring out her window looking for the stars, but they were never visible through the haze of city lights. Her parents were always there now, sitting with her, giving her hugs in the middle of the day, telling her they loved her, and she would cry as she told them how much it hurt, that she did not understand. Some days she walked alone, in the afternoon when the air was stifling and everyone was hiding away within their air-conditioned rooms. She preferred it that way, she liked to think, stuck in her thoughts, remembering when times were better, and sometimes she felt so shy that she felt vulnerable when even her toes were exposed, so she always breathed a sigh of relief when she came home without having encountered anyone. Her hair was always piled up into a messy bun now, and she wore mascara and eyeliner, but somehow she never felt pretty enough, and she went to the gym every week just so that she could feel good. She thought a lot about her friends, cried about them, wondered why they stopped loving her, and she never felt like she measured up. She started to stay at home instead of going to parties, hiding away in her room, listening to music that seemed to understand her better than anyone else. The stories in her head stopped all together, especially in the long, hot summer days. Every now and then she would think about the boy that lived in the corner house, but she was too afraid to go past there, too afraid that he would not smile and wave anymore. 

                     
Then she turned seventeen and she shook herself out of her daydream and decided to not spend a single second longer wasting thoughts on people who never thought of her. She joined a karate class and learned how to fight, getting stronger. Now she did not walk every day, but ran, faster and faster, past the house on the corner, into a new neighborhood, her head high. She found a miserable kitten on her front porch and took it in, naming it Jessie. It turned out to be a Himalayan cat and when her parents saw how much the breed cost they let her keep it. Whenever she sensed that someone did not appreciate her she disappeared as swiftly and with as little ceremony as when she had entered, always telling herself that she would only go where she was wanted. She withdrew, but she was not sad, happiness had become only an emotion to her, and she found strength within herself, in protecting her heart, in not feeling vulnerable anymore. She wore leather jackets and painted her nails black in an expression of freedom; she stood taller and with her shoulders back, her hair open and blowing in the breeze. She did not have any friends, and if she was honest, she would say that she was afraid to love, but she would never have admitted that and instead she tried to make herself as impenetrable as possible, diving into her studies, getting straight A’s the entire year. Her parents watched her with worrying expressions, but never said anything, afraid to talk to her; anxious that she would retreat even further into the shell she had created, so they kept their mouths shut and prayed that she would come around. 

                     
And now she was eighteen, beautiful, strong, independent, too headstrong for her own good, and she had completely alienated herself from everyone, except her parents. She walked the school hallways alone, sat in lectures alone, ate alone, and whenever she noticed someone watching her she would stand up and turn away. And one morning when she was running by the house on the corner, she saw the door open and the boy she had known all those years stepped out as a man, and he waved and smiled. She hesitated, her heart pounding wildly, then smiled and waved back, tears in her eyes. That night she could not sleep, thoughts pounding in every corner of her brain, memories haunting every turn, and every time she closed her eyes she thought about all the friendships she had missed because she had gotten so good at walking away, and she began to see herself as a coward, and not someone who was strong. She suddenly started to listen to music less and spend more time outdoors, she began to notice the tiny ants crawling around at her feet, always busy, always focused. She started to feel her heart beat again, instead of living in a daze, and black tea tasted like a cup of sadness mixed with comfort instead of a liquid that had no description. Sunsets suddenly brimmed with colors that she could not put into words and instead of going to karate class she climbed mountains and would stand at the very edge, hands outstretched, feeling the wind in her hair and smelling the freedom. Suddenly she realized that she needed people, needed their stories, and needed the connection, the friendship. So she started to go volley ball practices again and although she felt very much afraid she started talking to strangers and building connections. She did not remember it ever being this hard, and that was when she realized that it was so much easier to tear down relationships rather than to build them. And she was careful now, who she let into her heart, and she picked her friends carefully. She chose the ones who lived an inspired life, the ones who were learning and were aware of that, the people who were not afraid of being different, and the ones who she knew she could always count on. And when she realized how preoccupied she had become in her own life she strove to turn outward more, and she would go to coffee shops and watch people again, carrying around a leather notebook everywhere she went. She helped an elderly lady cross the street and picked up a fallen bag of groceries for a pregnant woman. And somewhere between feeling so lost and beginning to see the faint shimmer of home lights again, she realized that loving anyone or anything is to risk having your heart broken. She began to see love as such a brave thing and she suddenly knew it was okay to be scared. She realized that instead of fighting pain, she had to let it take its time and feel the hurt. 

                       
One morning she woke up with the sun gently warming the room and she realized that every breath was a gift and that she wanted to start living more from intention instead of habit; she wanted to thrive off of kindness, and be a friend even if she did not get a friend. She made it a point to give her parents a hug every day and tell them how much they meant to her, even when she had to leave home for class meetings or spend evenings with her friends. Sometimes she would see her old companions around town and she would smile and wave, but they never smiled back and she learned to be okay with that. Eighteen was a good year, because she finally learned to stop fighting and let go. And every day she ran by the house on the corner and every day he stood outside, smiling and waving. 

{{{a small piece of fiction that came through listening to instrumental music and a multitude of words that needed an escape. I always hate "waking up" after I finish writing a story like this, but for once it is bittersweet. I like the way this story ended. Interesting how the words sometimes seem to write themselves.}} *zuhause is German for home