It’s a tease, the wanting to leave. I feel like I have to apologize for it, that I can’t miss it, because we wanted to leave. Because we chose it, fought for it, prayed for it, jumped at it. The longing to go doesn’t place a lesser value on what we left, and it’s a tease thinking going will fulfill the longing. It is only intensified, brought to the surface by newness and displacement. We long for both, for the already not yet.

I miss the warm mornings, before the humidity fills my head and makes us weary. He and I go out, walking the hills of our park as the pines wake up to the oncoming Autumn. His toddler legs hit the bench halfway round, unwilling to move, so we rest and watch. It is bright in the city I always go back to.

I miss his face after a long day, welcoming me at the door and leaving my cheek raw. The five o’clock shadow is mature enough for him, he only shaved 12 hours ago. It smells of coffee and air fresheners and he sits in his chair, feet up. The cousins play; she feeds them well. I go through the day’s newspaper, last month’s National Geographic. I am his daughter.

I miss the hearty bread; we break and drink side by side. I walk him up and tear a piece, whispering in his ear, Thank You, Jesus. His arm wraps round my waist and we sing and sway, his changing voice learning how. All around us feet stomp and arms raise and our songs are so strong. Sunday morning light warms our hearts, and they are so young and hopeful. We call them our own, though we are just passing through.

I miss the full homes, the living rooms of laughter. The hugs and a quick shoulder rub, lying on our couch wrecked from the day. The date nights and the girls’ nights, the laying on of hands and holding babies. The birthday parties and the planning of weddings. I miss the Saturday morning breakfasts in the city market, listening to my childhood friend play his guitar while my children dance. The Sunday family lunch and the football afternoons. My sisters and my friends. The honorary aunts and uncles and moms and dads. The Thanksgivings and the Christmas Eves.

And I miss the Mexican food.

It’s a tease, knowing we can stay, that there’s no place to go anymore. Home is everywhere and nowhere, I ache for it all.

Two years away, now, and it’s OK. I can miss it, and it’s OK.

(From August 2013, never posted, completely forgotten. But still true.)