As soon as I step through that back door, I'm 15 again. My stuff slowly takes over every room in the house. I stand in front of the fridge, door open, just staring for minutes on end. My mom brings me food that she's made for me, as I lay on the couch watching bad tv.
Usually, I feel pretty far from that 15-year-old, but there's something about going home that brings it all back. It's not a bad thing. There is comfort in it. There's comfort in being able to bound down the stairs in pitch black because I know every step, every creak. There's comfort in knowing the back roads. There's comfort in familiarity and nostalgia.
There's comfort in home, not just as a place, but as a feeling.
I flew home this weekend to surprise my mom for Mother's Day. Every time I go home, it seems to be for something. It's either someone's wedding or a holiday or I'm running around trying to see as many people as possible. It was different and wonderful to go home just to have a regular weekend. We ate pizza and drank beer. We watched the Bruins' game. We dug through boxes of old photos. We danced around the kitchen. We went shopping, where I bought way more than she did. We did all of these simple, everyday things that we so rarely get to do together any more.
My mom was on the phone with her mom yesterday and said, about me being home, "It's really easy to get used to both of my children being around." It is easy. It's easy to be home and to be taken care of.
It's nice to be fifteen again, if only for a weekend.