Seeing my family after nine years keeps on giving, like an earthquake’s late seismic wave. The epicenter is my heart.
It was this year and feels like it was last year. In December 2022 I didn’t care about anything as I was a couple weeks away from going to visit the past, looking exactly how it was.
That Sunday morning breakfast with my parents and my sister, like nothing happened, after almost a decade and 13 hours in the sky, is carved into my soul. Even asking for the butter across the table felt fabulous. Still gives me the mental zoomies.
And then last summer. Soundtrack (without the wobbly bass, played on laptops and shitty headphones). Walking around my old neighborhood of Vincennes. The ground in downtown is white marble and stores left and right all seem to be unique and worth the try. I’m a tourist now.
I can’t wait to observe my folks’ faces when they’ll taste America and its California. Their smiles in the back of the minivan after dinner at a classic American restaurant. Or my dad’s giggle driving a 1971 Cadillac going down Hawthorne. Life is about making good memories and usually, you don’t need much to make good ones.