It Feels Different Being Back Here

I’ve been back in Central New York for a few weeks now.

And if I had to put it into one sentence…

it feels different being back here.

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On the way up, I picked up my sister in Virginia, and we drove the last stretch together to my brother’s house.

The three of us, under one roof.

For the first time in… what? Thirty-five years?

Something like that.

It didn’t feel heavy.

It felt easy.

Like no time had passed at all.

—

My brother has been nothing but gracious.

The kind of quiet care that doesn’t ask for attention.

After the drive up, I started to feel run down and he was bringing me coffee in the morning… or Alka-Seltzer and Advil before I even asked.

We sat on the couch together one night, eating popcorn & Twizzlers, watching an old wrestling documentary. :)

I catch myself watching him sometimes.

Not in an obvious way.

Just… noticing.

Because he’s right.

I haven’t really seen how he lives.

Not like this.

Not up close.

—

He’s seven years younger than me.

I was the one sneaking into his room when he was a baby, trying to give him a bottle when everyone else was letting him cry it out.

I didn’t allow it then.

And if I’m being honest… I probably still don’t.

Some things don’t change.

Even when everything else does.

—

There are pieces of my father everywhere in this house.

Little reminders.

Moments that come back without warning.

And then there are the other parts…

the people who aren’t here anymore in the way they used to be.

That part doesn’t feel the same.

And maybe it’s not supposed to.

—

I’ve spent a lot of time driving alone.

Past old houses.

Old streets.

Places that used to hold entire chapters of my life.

And it’s the strangest thing…

because I can still see it all.

My kids in the yard.

Snow everywhere.

Graduations.

Laughter.

Chaos.

Life.

It’s all still there in my mind.

Layered right over what exists now.

—

I really enjoy visiting…

and I’ve succumbed to the fact that I’m not the same person who left.

(Trust me. That’s a good thing.)

—

I stopped at a diner one day by myself and ordered a trash plate.

It was huge. It was perfect.

One of the waitresses recognized me.

I didn’t recognize anyone.

That moment spoke to me.

—

I sat on a porch not long after that, with people I’ve known forever.

And for a moment…

nothing had changed.

The bells from the church.

Cars driving by.

Waving.

Talking.

Laughing.

It all felt exactly the same.

—

And then it didn’t.

—

Because I’ve lived a whole life since then.

A full one.

A beautiful one.

A hard one.

—

I’ve lost people I never thought I’d lose.

I’ve gained more love than I knew was possible.

I’ve watched my children grow into their own lives.

And now…

I get to watch my grandchildren begin theirs.

—

Pulling into my son’s house and hearing my granddaughter yell,

Nonna! Nonna is here!

Nothing…

beats that.

—

I’ve realized something being here.

Something simple.

But important.

I am not standing between two lives.

I am carrying them both.

And I don’t have to choose.

I love where I came from.

I love where I am.

And wherever I go next…

I trust that I’ll know when I get there.

—

It seems like the one who leaves “home” becomes the one who feels the pull to return

because the ones who stay don’t feel the same pull to leave.

The one who leaves feels that pull, not necessarily out of longing—

but because all the love didn’t leave with them.

When you’re the only one who leaves,
you carry the distance for everyone.

When everyone else stays,
you become the one stretched between two lives.

And love has a way of tugging on all of that.

So you carry the tension of two worlds—
the life you’ve built,
and the one that began you.

Honestly… it would be a lot easier if everyone just left together.

So what exactly is “home”?
The place you started…
or the people who make it hard to stay away?

It’s an interesting dynamic and something I’ve been discussing, if only in my head.

—

I asked myself today,

Are you happy?

My answer was yes.

A loud, emphatic, resounding yes.

What would be your answer?

With love,

Mary Rose

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