I noticed the other day that when I went to you it didn’t feel as it had before. I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel like this place was a part of me as it always had been. It felt cold and distant –something unknown- separate from me. I sat in my car readying myself to enter to move forward and a part of me realized I didn’t want to. That I was doing it out of obligation to some archaic societal value that doesn’t even fit us anymore.
Family is supposed to be a lot of things. That’s how you raised us. Family is supposed to be everything. They are supposed to always have your back, be your support, allow you to fall and cheer you as you rise. Family is supposed to love unconditionally – to always wish you happiness. They are supposed to be who you turn to in any moment – good or bad. And so when I sat there in my car – literally preparing myself – I realized that I don’t feel that way and that I haven’t felt that way for a very long time. This place no longer feels like home. I don’t smile with thoughts of it. I have lost my fondness. The bits of nostalgia have been eaten away at by years of distancing and purposeful isolation.
I have lost it and it makes me wonder if I ever really had it. Can something that is supposedly so immense and deeply rooted be lost so easily? How do I get it back? I wonder… do I want it? What would I have to sacrifice?
We sat there talking – surfacely reviewing our weeks – the months since we’d last seen each other. The two hours felt like a day, draining me – leaving me raw, burdened by the words I did not say. I don’t know when the next time I will see you will be. I hope it is sooner, but more than anything I hope it is different. I hope I am different. I hope we can get it back – rewind – build anew – whatever we need to do. I hope we can because I love you and I want that feeling back.