November 24, 2020

My family and I haul my belongings from the car into the house. When we’re done, a haphazard mound of duffels and totes is piled along one wall of the kitchen.

We let out a collective sigh of weariness and relief. I am finally home after three months, and we are all safely back together as one unit. Unpacking can wait until tomorrow.

***

My first night back home is one of slight disorientation for me. Everything seems the same yet slightly different. My aloe plant still sits tall in its white porcelain pot, but it has grown at least three more plump green leaves. The kitchen counter is still littered with advertisement mail and Times magazines, but now the ads are all holiday themed and the Times covers feature Joe Biden and Kamala Harris locking hands in triumph. Even the air, which has always smelled like a mix of rice and laundry detergent and Method hand soap, has a slightly different combination of scents that I cannot quite place. Being home allows me to fully realize that while I was living my life 500 miles away in college, my family continued to live their lives at home: working, learning, cooking, reading the news, taking small weekend trips. It was naïve of me to think that their lives would pause while I was away, and that when I returned, everything would resume exactly the way it was.

It’s now 12:00 a.m.. As I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I notice that my room is eerily quiet. This is because, I quickly realize, I am so used to the constant noise of my dorm: the constant drone of the AC unit, the random clicks from the radiator, the pounding of feet from people running down the halls (and into walls) at 2 a.m.. It’s a bit unsettling how the silence of my room fills my ears, but this does help me fall asleep quicker.

***

November 25, 2020

I wake up. It is now the next morning: time for a run. Groggily, I pull on a sweatshirt and sweatpants and lace up my sneakers. As soon as I step outside, I recoil from the biting cold–spending three months in the South means I have grown accustomed to mild mornings. I’ll have to adjust back to Northeast weather.

As I run, I take in the sights of my neighborhood which I have known since birth: wide streets, evenly spaced colonial houses, neat landscaping. Typical suburbia. I run past the house that Happy the German Shepherd lives in–he always sprints along his fence and outpaces me when I pass by. I also wave to the 8:00 AM regulars: a mother and son walking their dog, a grandfather taking his morning stroll. Seeing all these familiar faces is comforting.

I dodge piles of leaf litter and try to ignore the wind whipping my face. I briefly close my eyes and imagine that I am back at college, jogging along the route that connects the two campuses. The air is warmer and thicker, the wind lighter, the sky bluer. The last couple autumn leaves are still fluttering to the ground.

My imagination is quickly disrupted by the burning in my legs. I’m struggling up a hill–I’ve forgotten how hilly my neighborhood is. In Durham, the hills are mostly gradual inclines, but here the hills are steep and unforgiving. I pump my arms harder and I will myself to keep going. I am wheezing and almost half-walking at this point, but I do not stop until the hill evens out and I reach my house. 

I lumber around the driveway in circles, gasping like a fish for breath. As I take in big gulps of air I spot some suburban wildlife: the red flash of a cardinal’s wing, a squirrel scampering across the lawn. Here, songbirds are more abundant and squirrels are hypersensitive. They dart away as soon as I make any sort of motion.

After I cool down, I head inside. Time to eat breakfast and then unpack.

***

November 26, 2020

Today is Thanksgiving. On any normal year my family would drive up to Queens to prepare a feast with our extended family, but this year we are staying home. Still, our miniaturized Thanksgiving dinner takes no small effort: my mother is in charge of the turkey, my father is in charge of the crabs and string beans, and my brother and I are in charge of everything potatoes. As I mix butter and syrup into the sweet potato mash, I think about the book I read years ago called Lies My Teacher Told Me by James Loewen, where I learned for the first time about Thanksgiving’s complicated story and the true history between the indigenous people and the colonists.

The kitchen is chaotic but lively and full of the rich, herby scents that only come this time of year–we don’t cook “traditional” American food much. After we’ve set the table and taken tons of pictures, we are finally ready to dig in. We video call our grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, laughing and talking as we help ourselves to juicy turkey meat and piles of mashed potatoes.

***

I am now alone in my room. I’ve said my goodbyes to my grandparents and cousins and I’ve just washed my fair share of dishes. I sit down at my desk for the first time since August to begin drafting this piece. But even though I’ve sat in this same position millions of times–feet up, chair slightly tilted forward, both hands hovering over the computer keyboard–I feel like a very different person. The last time I sat here, I was a kid. I was slumping in sluggish summer heat, sulking about my lost senior summer. Although I am still very much a kid, I feel older somehow. I have seen and experienced new things during my first semester at college–more than I previously had thought. I think about the new friends I have made so far, most of whom are now at home, scattered all over the country for the two month long break. I recall all the conversations I’ve had, the material I’ve learned, and the random buildings I’ve explored. Yes, it has been quite an interesting first semester given the parameters the pandemic has set, but it has been a fulfilling one nonetheless.

Right now, I should be thinking about my plans for the winter break, which seem like a million things but also nothing at all. I should also be writing up this piece. But my stomach is full of pumpkin pie and vanilla ice cream, and I am feeling lethargic and content. So instead, my computer screen remains blank. I turn to gaze out my bedroom window, and I notice that some of my neighbors have already set up their holiday yard lights. For a long time I sit curled in my chair, alone with my sleepy thoughts, admiring how the lights give the street a warm festive glow.