Re-Rooting Myself In The Homeland
Friday 18th September
Started the early hours of the morning, walking back from The Local, hand in hand with [Redacted]. Talking about God-Only-Knows-What and trying to stop my mouth from watering as I thought about the big bowl of cereal waiting for me at home.
Sometimes being with [Redacted] makes me feel like a little kid in the playground, being dragged along and taught by the slightly older kid with shoes too big for them. Sometimes I trip over my own two feet trying to keep up with them.
Spent the entire night lying to strangers and dancing to songs we didn’t know the lyrics to. [Redacted 2] has this horrid habit of lying. He’s a great storyteller. Three of us started floating around to different groups in the smoking area, stealing cigarettes and lying for fun. Despite the fact that I don’t smoke, people had no issue giving me cigarettes for free. Handed them off to [Redacted] and [Redacted 2] once I had gotten what they wanted. Sometimes I wonder just how far I’d go to give my friends what they want. I hope I never have to find out. When we weren’t stealing cigarettes, we were going around to strangers in the smoking area, telling them the most unbelievable lies. I would tell you what we said, my dear journal, but I can’t ruin our secrets.
Somewhere between the Afrobeats and lying, I remembered I had an early train in the morning and lost all my energy. [Redacted] and I parted ways with [Redacted 2] after 1-something AM, holding hands on the way home.
9:15 AM
The rain and cold morning air were the only things keeping me grounded in my body as I got to the station. Heavy eyelids. Nearly crawling on all fours up the station’s steps. I felt like I could fall asleep anywhere.
Woke in the middle of the night to banging from outside. Tossing and turning. Still slightly drunk, I couldn’t decipher where the noises were coming from. Felt as though the neighbours above me would fall onto me at any moment. Wanted to tap the wall to telepathically ask [Redacted 3] what was happening. However, my body and mind weren’t connected, and I found myself unable to do anything other than hold my blanket closer. Checked the time. 5-something-AM. Thought I'd fallen back asleep before hearing voices outside. Ah outside? That’s where the banging is coming from. Some nosy neighbour, more coherent than I, shouting to the source. Heard them shouting back, something along the lines of getting trapped outside without a key, and he was banging on his roommate’s window. The roommate in question must sleep through anything. “Why can’t you just go to the building’s security?” I thought, pulling the blanket closer and trying to lull myself back to sleep. As I write, I find myself questioning if it even happened. Or was it all some sick and twisted dream? Do that a whole lot. Have dreams I believe actually happened until I think about it in a better state and realise the truth. Texted [Redacted 3] from the seat of my first train if she heard the banging too. Trying to verify my(self) sources. [Redacted 3] texted back that the banging was so bad (and real) that it shook her bed. Also said she believed it was me. Glad it wasn’t me. Like to think I’d be a bit more considerate at 5-something AM.
Made it to the station and immediately ran into a bathroom stall. Sat in the stall for a while as the world spun a bit. Threw my hoodie on and mentally prepared to cross the country. Felt better after splashing my face with water. Boarded my first train. I like to get all the “important” stuff sorted on the first train. Any emails, plans or work I’ve to do, I do it on the first train. Mapped out my entire schedule for next week. Picked up a shift at work. Planned my training. Emailed that lecturer I have been meaning to email for the last few days. I like long train rides. There’s no responsibility or expectation to do anything other than stare out the window and watch the world go by. Yet, on the first train anyways, I find myself more productive than I would be at home. Got everything out of the way so I could spend my next few trains writing and daydreaming.
me, struggling in the station stall
The girl next to me on the train has an accent I can’t pinpoint, describing how beautiful the empty fields are to the man on the other side of the phone. Describing how beautiful it all looks as it passes us by. The simple beauty of the Irish countryside. Leaving behind the smog and vape-filled air of The Capital for the sweet, sweet air of cow shit.
Going back to my hometown feels like I am nineteen again and want the whole world to know my name. It smells of grease from the fast food place I worked for years. The air tastes of a mixture of my mother’s boss’s old perfume and my ex-lover, with a hint of strawberry boba popping from the shop that closed down years ago. Every step on these too-familiar paths feels like a lifetime ago, yet my feet know every step and turn. Each face I see reminds me of someone I used to know. Can’t be there for too long without this itchy feeling crawling under my skin.
Saturday, 19th Sept
275 grams of butter. 150ml of golden syrup. 1 packet of Maltsters. Maybe one and a half bags if you are feeling cheeky. A shit ton of chocolate and biscuits. So much so you feel somewhat sick looking at it all slowly melting over the low heat. Stirred it all together with leftover butter from my fingers staining the wooden spoon. While my mother and brother began cleaning everything up. Same ritual as it has always been. Mother washing the dishes. Brother drying and putting the dishes away. Me, standing, stirring, spacing out as I stare between the two of them. Spent the entire morning baking and dancing in our kitchen. My brother and I dancing to old, famous interest and game dances. Made biscuit cake for later in the evening. Left it to set in the fridge as we got ready to go out.
Drove down to the beach. Miss that. Biggest downside of the city. No bodies of water to replant yourself. Never getting the chance to just dip your feet in the cold water whenever you feel like it. Walked along the beach, Mother and Beach on the sand while I walked through the baby waves of the shore. Made sure to clasp some seawater in the palm of my hand. Splashing it across my face. Accidentally getting some into the ends of my hair. Seawater and curly hair are lovers. Hair blowing in the wind, getting messier and curlier as it soaks. Tasted the sea as the ends of my hair got stuck in my mouth.
Mother had to beg me to hurry up and come out. It has always been like this. When I was little, we used to get stuck at the beach for hours because I’d refuse to leave. Even my extended family knew what would happen as soon as my little toes felt the first wave crash against me. Booked the whole day out. However, I am not little anymore and cannot get away with such things. I left the water and was immediately greeted by my mother's fond smile and my Brother offering to support me as I threw on my shoes.
Headed to my Nana's house to see the few members of the family I talk to. Uncle gave me a hard time for showing up empty-handed. Have this tradition between the two of us where I always bring him his Maccies order, and we eat together. Cheeseburger, six nuggets and fries. No drink. Spent a while in that old house catching up with Uncles and Aunts. After my Nana passed, I used to avoid that house like the plague. Avoided the whole goddamn town. Couldn’t bring myself to see her chair sat empty at the top of the table. Queen of the house we was. Or the same untouched photos of myself and my cousins framed above the fireplace. Her glass cabinet in the sitting room that I would stare at in amazement when I was younger. Used to sit criss-cross applesauce, an inch away, holding my breath so as not to shake the fragile thing. Glass cabinet full of miniature glass, photos and evidence of my Nana's life. Sometimes it is still hard going into that house. Even after all these years, when I open the bathroom door, I expect to hear my Nana's voice in the kitchen. Every time the kettle gets up, I can hear her giving it to my Uncles or cousins for not offering me a cuppa, since I am the only one in my immediate family who drinks tea. Everyone had their own special teacup at Nana’s. Mine was massive, with a dark background and Tinker Bell flying around the side. I wonder if it’s still there. I’m not brave enough to check or ask.
Returned to the comfort of my family home. Mother ordering my favourite local takeaway as my brother and I plan how many rounds of UNO we should play that evening. The three of us sat around the kitchen table that seems to have changed every time I come back home. Enjoying our dinner together while trying to ignore the obvious ticking time bomb hanging over our heads as my time back home was coming to an end.