Text Me When You Get Home

9/13/2021

I still remember the way I felt when my family and I moved from the first home I ever lived in. Little 8 year old Daynie thought there couldn't be a pain worse than that. I cried every time the idea of us moving was even mentioned since I was probably 5. The little yellow house that sat on the corner of Wood Street. Less

than a block from the hospital I was born in- it was so close that my parents walked there when my mom went into labor with me. I had spent every core memory of mine in the 1,648sq feet of that 100 year old home. When we adopted my sister, my parents decided we had finally outgrown it and began looking for a place for us to move into. At that point, the idea of leaving behind our old leather couch, and the window seat of my upstairs room wasn't quite as heartbreaking. There was so much excitement surrounding it all, and it only grew as the weeks filled up with tours of newer, bigger, nicer homes. I couldn't wait. We eventually decided on a big white house with a tall front door, and a sweet front porch. It was all brand new, and it was only when the process of moving into it began, that I realized what was actually happening. I was not only leaving behind the home I grew up in, but also the neighbors who babysat me growing up, the couple down the street who watched my betta fish every time we went out of town, the big front porch swing with the colorful pillows that went missing every few months because passerby's decided they liked them as well. I was leaving behind the parades that marched along the end of our street, and the parking lot I learned to ride a bike in, and the trampoline owned by my favorite southern accent speaking lady who lived two houses down. It hurt my 3rd grade heart worse than anything I had experienced up until that point. I guess i’m pretty sentimental. When the day came for us to move into our new house, I was reminded ever so quickly that it was better than the old in nearly every way- we didn't have to put buckets on the kitchen floor every time it rained because of the leaks in the roof, it didn't need to be tented every few years because the original wood build was being swallowed whole by termites, it was bigger, nicer, AND it had a swing set in the backyard. But even still, for the next few years, every time we visited our old town, the night always ended standing on the sidewalk in front of our old yellow house sobbing into my dad's green shirt. We had moved less than 15 minutes away, yet it felt like the very end of the world. I don't know what about it hurt so bad, but it did. The nostalgia still creeps in anytime me and my friends visit the coffee shop on the opposing side of the street that opened a few years ago. Sitting in the little white chairs holding an iced coffee with oat milk in my hand, I can't help but squint to see inside the windows of that home and think about what might've been had we never left.

It was a similar feeling after selling my first car. My deep red 1993 bronco. My dream car. I remember the very first time I drove it alone, on my way to school after passing my drivers test the day before. I drove on the frontage road the whole way there because I was too afraid to drive on US 19. I remember the feeling of parking it in the school lot and walking into the hall where my friends sat each morning to see everyone cheering for me. (I failed my test the first time so it was a pretty big deal the second time around). That car felt like a home in itself. And really, it WAS home to so many things- to pillows permanently in the backseat so impromptu sunset cuddle piles were always an option, tennis balls sat tentatively in every pocket of the door in case we happened to run into a dog somewhere, a skateboard was always in the backseat, polaroid pictures hung above the pull down mirrors of the driver seat and the bed of it was constantly filled with people because there was never enough seats for when we decided to make a run to the pet store so all of our friends could get matching fish. The aux cord was usually broken so we spent every car ride in conversation, there was no ac so hands were always hanging out windows, and the inside door handle of the passenger seat had broken off a few months into me owning it so chivalry was always alive. That car was like my own little house. I could do whatever I wanted with it and in it, and because of that, the first summer after I got it was filled with some of the happiest days of my life thus far. But eventually, that beat up old truck that had grown men telling me to roll the windows down at stop lights so they could compliment it, and that had me calling my dad to come get me at least once a month because it had broken down somewhere, eventually had it's last run. Back in January the engine died in the middle of a parking lot (yet again) and we decided it was probably time to get a new car. I was heartbroken. I'd worked so hard to save money to buy my dream car and before it had even been mine for a year I already had to let go of it. I don't think of myself as a super materialistic person, but that red truck was my own, and I was so proud of it. As we scrolled through craigslist looking for it's replacement, many tears were shed, but when we came across a bright orange X-terra, I knew it was made for me. My very favorite color, and the best part was... it had all the door handles, AND the AC worked. It was newer and better and it also didn't have a plug for an aux cord, but that's okay because I still didn't mind the idea of my car being filled with conversation rather than music to hide the dialogue. Within a day of seeing the advertisement for it, it was already sitting in my driveway as my own. I loved it, but I remember thinking about how bitter it was to leave behind my sticky, old, sweat covered, leather seated truck. The car that had me nervous that it was going to break down before the day was over every time I left the house. I remember how even though i was moving into a new car that was reliable and air-conditioned, I was still unhappy about leaving the old behind because it felt like home (which is kinda fair because it was the coolest car ever, but I hope you understand what I'm trying to say).

I spent a lot of time making homes within buildings and cars and my favorite sunset spots, but a few years ago I was visiting my best friends who live on the other side of the state, and after a long weekend filled with snow cones and star gazing and sunrise watching, we stood outside of the hotel room saying our goodbyes. With these boys, goodbyes usually last about 30 minutes and occasionally involve a few tears. We only get to see each other a few times a year, so leaving is extra hard, and goodbye hugs are extra long. I walked down the line hugging each of them and as I got to the end to hug my friend Tyler, he said into my ear "you guys are my home". I'll be honest, when I think about that day, that trip, or that goodbye, my eyes get teary. Telling someone that they feel like home is such a gentle, delicate thing to say. And it stung my heart because I felt the exact same way about them. He went on to say that when he's with us it doesn’t matter what coast we’re on or whether we’re falling asleep on the big pit couch of my living room or in the lobby of a hotel, it feels just the same. That statement made me realize it wasn't about the house or the car , or any of the places I had previously built a home for myself within, it was the people that made it feel like home. It was the friends in the trunk of my car with their heads peeking out the back window making faces at the cars behind us, and the people sitting in the front seat holding my right hand while I drove with the left that made that red bronco feel like a home. It was the moments of hearing my first Taylor Swift song on my dads lap in the living room, and the memories of my little brother asleep next to me on the blow up mattress we'd set up in the middle of the kitchen so that we could have breakfast in bed the next morning that made that little yellow house a home. It was never the building and it was never the machine, it was always the memories and the people. It was always Tyler, Ant, and JD who felt like home even though they were 3 and a half hours away on the other coast, or my mom and dad in the room below mine who felt like home, or Jade-whether she lived two houses down or on the other side of the city, who could make any place and any moment feel like home. I'm so glad. Because I miss that little blue and green bedroom of mine sometimes, or the tan lining of the seats from the car I got the chance to love before it was up for sale, but really, there's nothing that I had in those places that I don't have everywhere I go, within the people I surround myself with.

Oh yeah, and what's coming is better than what's passed. As I've gotten older I realize I can miss the place I grew up while still loving where I am now. You'll see.