I'm drinking out of a coffee mug that used to be mine but I'm not in my kitchen. A cooler with our last name on it is sitting out in the hall. One of my favorite floral blouses is in the laundry basket. It's like that moment that you first wake from a vivid dream and can't tell where you are. But you know something isn't quite right. It's like the sinking feeling of dejavu.
Before Zach and I left with our daughter to travel the US for a year, we sold our house in a hurry. To say it was chaotic was an understatement. Zach would have gladly set our belongings ablaze in the front lawn to save the hassle of dealing with them. But we opted for peddling them on our friends and family any chance we got. Our former belongings are scattered across East Tennessee and on up to Virginia. I don't miss them. Each time we gave away another thing I thought it would be so hard. Once gone however, it was like it was never there. They were just things after all.
Now as I sit at our friends house, having just crossed the US in a rush to tow their truck home, those things are reminders. Reminders of the home we renovated. The home that we brought our daughter back from the hospital to. The house that we won't be returning to.
Coming back made it just feel like a long vacation. That we should walk through our front door and find our house just as we left it. That we'll sigh and clean and cook and put our daughter to sleep in her crib and crawl into our bed to whisper to each other about the adventures we've had.
It's a strange feeling to yearn for a place that is so close and yet no longer what it was. Not for us. I guess that is the duality of what we are doing. That I both crave more travel and miss a place. That I feel both lost and more on a path than I have in a long time. That I both have a home and am homeless. That I am both homesick and already home.
