Sunrise. Always, the sunrise comes, saving me from memory. It never fades, this hurt, never goes away. I see people all around, talking, laughing, but I never truly fit in. Is this how it will always be? Will I always miss it, them? Can I ever go back?
I speak of my home. Not this house I live in, no, but my home. The house I grew up in, loved with all my heart. The friends who thought deeper. The magical wonder of living in the country. Home.
Always, the thought haunts me. Home. When will I next go back for a visit, then tear my heart out again when I leave? In the deep dark of the night, the memories flood me. Band, musicals, movies, books, days, nights, games we played. They torment me with their sweetness. And then, even worse, thinking that I somehow let them down. Just when they needed me, I was gone. And then to not see them or talk to them more than once or twice a month, it was…. Inhuman. How could my parents torture me like this? How could my brothers take away my lifeline, the only reason I stay in this house? And still, the memories come. Cousins visiting the small house, the first time a certain friend came over and saw my tiny room that later became Dad’s office, the little jumping mouse I saved from death.
The clock strikes midnight, then goes quiet, for a clock. I can still hear its breathing: tick, tick, tick. It tells me there’s still too much time left. There’s still so much to remember.
Confidences, memories of the promises made by me and others, but especially from the one who seems to become more like me the more we’re apart. The promise of help and hope, no matter when or how or why, she’d be there. It wouldn’t matter if I called at ten, eleven at night, she’d still answer and talk for as long as we both had something to say. Everytime I feel the despair, I think of that promise and others. Always, those memories, some of the best, come after the torment, and somehow make it easier to bear. I’ll find a way. Someday, somehow, I’ll go back. I’ll go home.