I've never been homesick. I've been “home-sick”-- carrying that hunk of lead in the pit of your stomach as your time away comes to an end. Back to routine, back to routine. Not to be mean but I want to take my roots and plant them elsewhere time, after time, after time. Because you have to come back to your roots. But this plant is rotting from the bottom up, reaching for the sun with a weak foundation and I don't want to fall.
I've never been homesick. But I've been so sick of the droll, the toll, the tax I didn't know I had to pay for the sake of community. But where's the common unity if the clockwork pieces move farther apart with every passing hour? Our time is coming, but I don't know what will transpire.
I've never been homesick. I've been sick- sick of wanting to be sick so I can stick to faulty sympathy-- faulty because I need to grow. Faulty because I need to know I can go it alone without these training wheels I can't detach because guess who can't afford half the tools she needs since she spent it all on comfort? It's how I was raised: substitute praise with a trifle, a trinket, a treat. We only eat to fill the holes we dig for each other while father, sister, mother spiral down-- farther, farther, until we forget what we’re burying.
I've never been homesick. I don't have a home to miss (not yet) because I've never been I've never seen where I'm meant to reside for the rest of my life. My home is farther than I can reach so I strive for heavenly speech to mimic the local dialect. Maybe someone will detect that I'm lost I can't get there just yet but I'm homeward bound.
Every journey is like returning home. Every homestay leaves me anxious to hit the road. This mission year may be the closest I'll get to home, and that's okay.