Realization

Back? I'm moving back? I'm going back to my parent's house after four years? Are you sure?

I didn't think that would be me. I didn't think I would be sitting in my sister's old room with moving boxes half open and bulimic suitcases all around me like a frat house the morning after. The golf clubs, blankets, textbooks, towels, sunglasses, shaving cream, shoe boxes, winter boots, hair gel, and shower curtain all say "believe it" with a hungover scowl on their faces.

Wait, so now I'm talking to my things now too?

I've got to get out of here.

Where did my friends go? She a baby? He really joined a church? Where was that job I had after graduation? When did those houses get built? Wasn't there a bookstore here? When did that house burn down? What's this invitation? It's my five year reunion already?

I'm not interested. No thanks. Take me back home. My home. Back where the sagebrush grows. Back where summertime means volleyball, suntans, bikinis, golf, and hiking all day and campfires all night.

That's what last summer was.