Coming Home

            The cool, smooth texture of the thinly wrapped leather whispers beneath my palms as I allow the car to straighten out of a turn. The gas pedal gently hums beneath the sole of my thin sandal and over the radio comes the soft strumming of a guitar, a prelude to that song that never seems to grow old. The icy chill of the air conditioning sends goose bumps up my arms and back of my neck. I hurriedly flick it off and lower the windows, reveling in the sudden blast of the warm summer night’s air.

            I inhale and exhale greedily. The air is sweet and humid; the smells of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle linger enticingly in the air. The road before me is long and familiar, rife with memories both inconsequential and stunning. A cloud drifts lazily across the horizon, and the moon to shines down with majestic disinterest. I all of the sudden very much want and do not want to cry. I struggle to understand my intensely garbled emotions and recall a similar moment when all seemed perfect and beautiful beyond words.

            “Look!” I sigh happily, sitting in the passenger seat of my father’s car. “Look at how beautiful Texas is!”

            He let out a short laugh surveyed the same landscape, completely underwhelmed. “Flat.” was his only reply.

            “No, look, see? Look at the trees. They’re all planted so…neatly! And the grass! I mean, everything is just so lush and green and open…” I felt the inadequacy of my words but for the life of me couldn’t seem communicate what was really so great about the wide expanse all around us. So I gave up. I settled back in my seat and watched the towering wooden telephone poles flit by. I clung to the contentment I had discovered and found solace in its peace.

            “The life of a student is beautiful.” We were at home, my father leaning back in his armchair, his feet propped up on an ottoman and his hand mechanically stroking the cat curled up at his side.

            “Why?” I asked, a smile already curling to my lips.

            He shrugged and looked almost amazed as he spoke. “Because, as a student, that’s it, you just enjoy life.”

            “And after that?”

            He let out a derisive ha! “Then comes the rest of your life. The real world.”

            “And what’s the real world?” I teased.

            He answered succinctly, “Work.”

            I mulled it all over. The rest of your life. That time period seemed unfathomable. I was already having trouble coming to grips with an entire year having passed since I left to live in Russia. Had it really been a year? Is that really how time works?

            When first stepping back into the house I had grown up in, everything was as I had left it. Russia was by then hundreds of miles away and so, too, seemed my memories of it. It was almost as if I had blinked and dreamed the whole thing. I felt like I needed to stare at my pictures, just to convince myself I really had been there.

Over time however, my brain had a way of reminding itself of the gap in time by completely and utterly failing to retrace my steps. Where had I put that book one year ago? Did I even keep that pair of brown flip-flops? And then there were my friends I had left behind. They came whizzing through space at break neck speeds to call, chat, or message me over the internet. They seemed so close, I felt like I should have been able to reach out and touch them. The reality of the colossal distance between us is only beginning to sink in.

All this flits across my mind as I drive down that stretch of smooth gray pavement. The wind in my face, the silence unbroken, the darkness enveloping all in its path, I sit torturously, happily, alone, trying to dissect this heartbreaking peace.