Open when you miss home
The maple out front is turning red again. I noticed it this morning and the first thing I thought was, she'd want a picture. So I took one. It's taped to the back of this letter.
Here's what home looks like without you, since I know you're wondering.
Your mom still sets out your blue mug on Sunday mornings. She says it's a habit. It isn't. The dog sleeps outside your door like he's waiting for a delivery. I fixed the porch step you always tripped on and then felt strangely sad about it, like I'd erased something.
The house is quieter. Not better. Quieter.
I know homesick feels like something is wrong with you. Like everyone else in that dorm is fine and you're the only one lying awake listening to the radiator. But missing home just means you came from somewhere worth missing. That was our job, and I think we did it right.
You don't have to love it there yet. You just have to stay long enough to find one person, one coffee shop, one bench that feels like yours. It took me a whole semester. Then I didn't want to leave.
Call your mother. She'll pretend she's busy. She won't be.
Dad
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