I should be at the gym.  I know, I know; I’m paying for the membership, and the more excuses I make, the less I’ll keep going.  But I’ve been tickled by twinges of homesickness all day, and I’ve got to get them out of my head or I may book a ticket home next weekend with money I don’t have, or something equally irrational.

Even though I’ve changed houses every three years of my life or so, today I’ve had flashes of the house where my parents live now (where I finished high school).  I suppose this makes sense, since I’m envisioning the place to which I would be going back if I were to head “home”, instead of just having childhood flashbacks.  Every now and again there’s a flash of the house we lived in around ’94 – ’97, but those are mostly Christmastime memories. 

I want to run around in the yard, through leaves, chasing my dog.  I want to swing on the swingset my Daddy built me when I was three (Big Red is still standing, over twenty years later, and goin’ strong).  I want to wake up to the smell of french toast or biscuits and gravy, with Mom standing in the doorway asking if she should put the kettle on.  I want Daddy to tell me there are sugar Dr Peppers out in The Room.  I want to listen to my sister play songs on the piano over and over and over ’til she gets them right.  I want Nunna to come in the back door and say “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?”  and I want Bobby to be right behind her, bringing in the suitcases and saying, “Aw, hi, punky!  How’s my big collech girl?” as I throw my arms around his neck.  (I wish he’d been able to see me graduate from collech.)  I want Grannie standing at the stove saying, “Kyleen, I made you a big mess ‘a greens, and there’s some peas in the fridge.”  I want PaPa to ask me how I like my new job (which isn’t new) and then ask me again, three times, ’cause he can’t hear me over the bluegrass Daddy’s got blaring through the kitchen speakers.  I want to sing Dixie Chicks songs in three-part harmony with Mom and Lyss while Daddy plays guitar.  And it goes even past missing my family.  I want to drive with Cass, listening to angry music, and head to Kimmo’s house, where Jeff will already be there with a movie.  I want to pull popcorn out of my purse and pour everybody Mrs. Taylor’s lemonade from the fridge.  I want to go to a pool party at Casey’s and gab with his parents, and listen to TMBG and Cake and Rob Zombie and try to throw Travis in the pool, and make faces at Elissa, and talk with Will about whatever he feels like telling me, and hope Jordan doesn’t throw his shoe at me.  I want to go to a LAN party where I have no idea what’s going on.  I want to sit around my living room playing some game with whoever happens to walk in the back door.  I want to cook steaks with the Fritzes.  I want to go camping, and water skiing, and ride 4-wheelers with Jason and Tucker and Lyss and get stuck somewhere.  I want to run into everyone I know at Wal-Mart or the Mall.  I want to go outside, anywhere, at night, and look up, and be awed at all the stars.  I want fresh air.  I want to just drive.  I could go on and on and on, but really, I just . . .

I want to go home.

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