Give me a name for the almost-home
For a person who has spent her life on a linear fast-track towards what she always thought was "better," 2015 would spark more than fireworks. Waiting for our bag at Terminal 5, to the cacophony of landed New Yorkers yelling "Happy New Year!!" at the ghosted airport, I couldn't help but recall the countdown that led to 2014 and how similar those moments were.
What you don't know about 2014 was that I had been convinced it would be the best year of my life. Because 14 is my favorite number, and I'm a sucker for serendipity. Because, as it began, we were making a gingerbread house and watching 'Love Actually,' to the ball drop, a borough away. Because he said "This year will be better." Because I am naive enough to wish it so.
That year has come and gone: A mixed bag. This is an expression I hadn't understood until recently. Now it feels ever so useful, to describe the times when nothing goes as planned. When placing a hand in the hive could result in a bee-sting or honey and you never quite know what you're gonna get.
I left New York, at the start of January 2014, for thirteen days of a fresh start and came back with the hope I'd lost in loose change and pillowcases. This January I didn't run. Instead, I worked through the way it feels to come home--when home is neither here nor there. I'm finding comfort where I am.
Today is January 14, 2015. There are still 14s, to make up for the days that surround it. There's even the potential for growth in numbers. Maybe I'll like more than 14. Maybe every day can be better.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.