yours truly, cara

Sometimes I imagine a conversation with my younger self. I tell her that I spent the summer in New York, in my first apartment.. She would beam with excitement, saying, “Wasn’t it just amazing? Did I go to every flea market? Tons of Broadway shows? Was I with Kyla?” And I would sigh. Not that none of that didn’t occur, but rather if the past two years hadn’t happened, I probably wouldn’t have spent the summer in New York. 

It’s easiest to say I spent it there to test whether I would want to live there after graduation, or that I love it so much I didn’t want to go home. And maybe that’s half the truth. But there’s another half. another half that is so daunting to share that I just keep it to myself: the secret that I didn’t want to be at home. 

I love my home, I love the red chairs in the driveway, the flowers on the front step, the weeping willow in the backyard, the creaks in the stairs, the bed that is older than me. I love it all. But sometimes there is a sense of silence in this house that was never here before. It no longer feels like the safe place it once was; instead, it fills me with sadness as if the memories haunt these walls. 

The kitchen doesn’t smell of spices anymore. I don’t hear the snores at bedtime. My giggles of waiting for him to return from work are gone. The emptiness on the couch beside me as I turn on the TV is all that remains. His laugh, his smile, taunt me of what once was. It was never this quiet before. The house is no longer the safe escape I used to love returning to; instead, it is a reminder. A reminder I like to be far away from. Here, it is obvious that this four-person household has turned to three, and that the glue that once held it together is gone. 

So I spent the summer in New York. It is easier being away, I can forget, I can escape, I can pretend that nothing has changed. But once I return, I remember.

Yours Truly,

Cara