A Cliché Concept

Home again, home again, jiggady jig.
Corny right?

I know. 

But it's the first thing I though when pulling into the drive way. Seems it isn't just his brown eyes I inherited, but also a few lame phrases, which oddly, I never thought were silly until now. 

My sister turned off the car and we all just sat there. Silent. Slowly, my urgent hunger turned into this indescribable stomach pang, that I had hoped never to feel again. 

As I walked through the door, the humid smell of dirt that I so often loathed, greeted me. But this time, I didn't mind it. Maybe it was because I knew I wouldn't be responsible for cleaning the carpet, or maybe I genuinely missed it.

I begin to scan the house. Glancing to the left, on an old wooden purse rack, was a dried flower crown, made with clover blooms that I had tied together a few months back.
Right before everything changed. 

The pang went deeper--- further than welcomed. 

I swallowed my thoughts and made a joke. If they could be strong, so can I. It seems joking about the situation, doesn't leave people with such a loss for words. They shouldn't have to be as uncomfortable as I feel.

Room by room, I sorted through my belongings, boxing up what was coming with us, and leaving what seemed of little value to me now. Although, I've become easily distracted, I managed to get through the majority of my things. The value of my stuff decreasing by a ridiculous amount, with each glance.

Finally I made it to my closet. Caring less about my shoes or any article of clothing for that matter, I looked up and towards the right. All of my old toys lay untouched in such a perfectly unorganized fashion. I reached for a stuffed horse that is dangling over the shelf. It was one of my childhood favorites. Intentionally, I decided to visit memory lane (such a bad idea). I laid myself down on the bed, grabbing two other large stuffed animals from my past and started to reminisce.

My eyes began to sting as tears welled up, making everything appear foggy.

Memories.

So many distinct memories painted nostalgically in my mind, taking place in every single inch of my home.

You know, when you look up, right at that point where the wall meets the ceiling and on one wall there is the cheesy wall paper, the other, chipped paint and cobwebs? Scanning the entire room, staying horizontal with that familiar place between wall and ceiling. It almost seems the same. Like nothing had ever happened. But if you begin to lower your gaze, running down the walls, you see the chaos, and all at once, you remember.

How is it that I wanted more than anything to stay at that place? The longer I set still, the more I couldn't imagine leaving. I'd never been more torn in my life. Between heart and mind. This home, so perfectly imperfect.
The counter, worn and crooked, the refrigerator, making it's awful squeaking noise. The noise that accompanied the majority of my life's decisions-- because against it, was my favorite place to sit and think.

All at once, surrounding me were these moments or minor details that I never would've valued unless they were taken away. 

Why is it, that the only way we truly see worth in our little meaningless moments, is after something tragic happens?

It's gone.

All of it. 

No matter how tight the grip I hold on the past, things change.

My memories are like the sand, being washed away by the changing tide, they still exist, they're just no longer on the shore line, staring me in the face.

Maybe that's cliché, but honestly. I don't care.

Valuing life doesn't come naturally, it takes deliberate work, it's hard, and easily forgotten. But very much worth the effort. And I choose to value, even the smallest of thoughts, even the cliché type. 

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