Home for the Holidays

It’s not a breath of fresh air. There’s nothing new or vitalizing about it. It’s breathing in the air that you knew at 8-years-old, your lungs finally feeling at home again. It’s comfortable. It’s relaxing.

It’s not autumn or spring. The leaves aren’t blossoming or bursting into color as they prepare to fall. It’s the winter tree. You can’t hide your scraggly branches underneath vibrant colors. You’re stuck with the part of you that exists year-round.

It’s not hard liquor. It’s not vodka or rum or tequila. There’s no burn as it rushes down your throat, little doses taking you away from the stress of daily life. It’s more like a cold beer, not pretending to be anything more than what it is. It’s smooth and refreshing and, most of all, thoughtless.

It’s the chip on that coffee mug from your brief clumsy phase. It’s the blanket you used to eat pizza on while watching Disney movies and calling it a picnic. It’s the pet turtle that you found by the fire pit when you were 5 that’s still alive. It’s the place in the ceiling where water dripped for a week and you quickly learned to avoid the huge bucket in the middle of the room.  It’s the bookshelves that hold your childhood favorites and books you somehow haven’t gotten to yet. It’s familiarity and recognition.

But it’s also a snowflake on your tongue. It’s temporary. It’s rare. You have to be sure to appreciate the moment both despite and for its fleetingness.

Blink and it’ll be over, so make sure to close your eyes and take it in.

(shhhhh I'm allowed to do more creative writing stuff once in a while. Stay rad, pals.)