It’s four in the morning and I’ve just woken up in a puddle of my own sweat. The mix matched blankets and naked pillows are strewn all over the bed. This is it, the aftermath of the second dose has finally taken my body and I must bear all the pain and horribleness for the greater good of humanity. Don’t say I never did anything for you. I sit up, groggily trying to piece together where I am. I see darkness and not much else. The five dollar mini fan from Walgreens sits to the left of me and I turn it off. I fumble with the red cap of the Tylenol bottle and take a big gulp of water from my Stonehenge souvenir cup. I fall back asleep dreaming of home.
The first image I get when I think about home is my kitchen from the the top of the stairs. I can see my mom by the electric stove with her ear-pods in and her phone propped up against the salt shaker. I can see my brother wearing an apron, washing the dishes. I can see the tiny plant pots lined up on the window sill, the compost bin filled with used coffee grains and egg shells, the young seedling heads poking out of the dirt in my mother’s favourite broken cup.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the act of leaving recently. How we travel from one place to another. How we leave behind pieces of ourselves everywhere we go. Nowadays, it seems like everyone is always going and going; and then they’re gone. It’s corny to write, but it’s true. The pandemic was a much needed pause for the world. A moment to stand still and really think about the things that matter. For me, it’s my family and the city I grew up in.
I’ve been in New York for less than two weeks and the only thing I can think about is home. As I sit there in my half-delirious, barely vaccinated state, I wonder how my parents did it. How do you leave and never go back.
