being home is hard

I used to love being home. My family is a huge part of my identity, and I grew up thinking of my cousins more like little siblings. I still love being home, and seeing all my family. I miss them so much while I’m away. However, when my mom died, home changed drastically for me. I don’t miss my house the way I used to. I don’t miss showering in my shower, I don’t miss sleeping in my bed. I don’t miss cooking in my kitchen.

I’ve found it a lot harder to write pieces for the blog while here. While abroad, I had so much more time and peace of mind in which I could meditate on my feelings. Being home, all my feelings continue to hit me like a ton of bricks, preventing me from effectively breaking them down and look at them relatively objectively. One might say that being here, surrounded by all the people who love me so much and are most affected by this collective loss, has brought my emotions too close to home.

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close to home

Getting home is 

Putting on a new skin

Zipping it up quickly so that 

No one knows 

It’s me.

I leave

myself

at the arrival gate

of the airport.

I abandon my flannels for frills

I hand in my converse and slide into sandals

I don 

Sunglasses

Handbag

Nail polish 

Flowery dress.

I strip away

Leg hair

Armpits

My flannels

My boots.

Give me grocery list

Laundry to fold

Hair to control

A family to hold 

together.

I am Pascale personified

My mother incarnate

Does she know who I am when I am not her?

Do I?

I slip into my skin at the end of each semester.

I am my mother.

I am home.

I am free.

I am 

me

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Please let me know what you think. I love hearing your feedback. Even more than that, I love talking about and remembering my mom. I’ m always, always happy to chat about her and tell stories about her. Thank you for reading!