two homes by Veronica P. '27

Yesterday, I went thrifting.

When I thrift, I am a girl on a mission. With far too many options and far too little gems, I must be swift and decisive, methodically and quickly moving my way down the racks, pushing hanger after hanger, making split second judgment after judgment.

But yesterday, something gave me pause.

It was a polo: pretty standard, visibly not my size, and (to be frank) kinda ugly. But there, on the breast, was the logo of my old catholic preschool- the place I’d learned my months of the year and animal sounds and how to spell my name.

Though amused, I moved on, but once I’d noticed it, I couldn’t quite shake it. In blue- the gym uniform I donned each day in my middle school locker room. In green- the sweat-wicking shirts of the local running club I’d spot on early mornings. In yellow- the high school baseball shirts worn by the team every game day.

Suddenly, I realized how much I’d taken for granted constantly being surrounded by semblances of home, by remnants of memories.

I can do what I can. I can lay out in my hammock and soak in the Houston heat till I’m sunburnt and sticky with sweat. I can drive down my neighborhood streets a million times a day and memorize every yard sign, count the high school parking lot stickers adorned on the cars passing by. I can fill my lungs up to capacity with the smell of my best friend’s house, till there’s no room left for me to laugh or scream or cry. I can stuff myself full of my mom’s chicken, the one she’d made just because she knew it was my favorite, even when she wasn’t planning on cooking at all.

I can see her trying too- staring at me a second too long across the kitchen table, squeezing me a bit tighter than normal, visiting my room more often for no particular reason at all.

It’s how you cope when you know things will never quite be the same; when you know that one can return to these people and these places, but they won’t be those same people or places you’d once known. My experience of MIT will send me back a different person, viewing familiarities with a newfound, unfamiliar perspective. Knowing this, I do my best to be mindful of every nuance and appreciative of every detail in these last months at home.

However, as I drive my car its final miles and read my last few books in that backyard hammock, I find myself seized by a sense of restlessness. I’m impatient to reach this next period in my life, that will be stressful and unfamiliar and busy and eventful. And the more I look around my home, the more I think “I love you, but wow, am I ready to leave you.” The muscles of my soul, longing for the opportunity to feel and fear and push, know they would otherwise atrophy. It’s remarkable, really, how these things come around right when you need them; that you can leave those objects of your heart before you grow resentful towards them, so that they can remain as such.

And, who knows. Maybe, in a few year’s time, I’ll flip through the racks of the thrift stores of Boston. I’ll see a shirt that reminds me of a memory far gone, pause, and smile.

What a joy it is to get to have two homes.