My mum and dad always welcome me when I arrive. Their flat is always tidy and cosy. There are always church newsletters on the coffee table and the radio is tuned in on the local, Swedish-speaking station. There is always coffee and a fridge full of food that I (almost shamelessly) take advantage of when I've exceeded my budget. Today, I ate two homemade cinnamon buns and enjoyed the safe feeling of home.
It wasn't always like this. Last year, I lived in that same flat with my parents for months. Sometimes I'm surprised my sanity is still intact. It almost destroyed me. Family can rip you to pieces in its genuine and flawed love.
But time heals, and I'm slowly nearing the point where I can again enjoy the warmth of returning home every now and then and find shelter. I can somehow deal with that love.
But love is like that storm I lived through last night. If you get carried away by it, you can end up in a place you never dreamed of, which makes it all worth while. But it can never be completely controlled.
I will forever be in danger.
1 comment:
how...well, touching for the lack of a better word.
Even under the same roof I feel as if I am a species apart. Cuz I wanted it that way. And this mindset is respected.
Homecoming. Long may we long for it.
Post a Comment