I am good at long distance. Always have been. Maybe I’m a bit too callous or I’ve always had more of a free spirit but, I am good at long distance. I don’t often miss people. I don’t miss familiarity. I don’t miss my bed or my posters or the smell of my home.
Then again, I’ve never really lived away from home like this. I’ve travelled for lengthy periods. I’ve stayed in my university town for months at a time without so much as a one night visit home. But now I’m 3000 miles away. More than that. And I can’t just drive back. I have to plan. Book a flight. Fly in a metal machine across a giant ocean.
And I am missing home. I’m missing the drive down to Tim Hortons to grab a bad but, cheap cup of coffee. I’m missing the Friday nights with the people I have been best friends with since grade school. I’m missing sleepovers at my friends’ houses. I’m missing arguing with my family face-to-face instead of over text message and a bad wifi connection.
I’m missing the people who know me best. The places that I find comforting like my church and the book store 5 minutes away and the park up path across from my house and the lakeshore. My room with all my posters of Audrey Hepburn and Johnny Depp and the Beatles and the Friends cast. The stupid white shirt with the swallows on it that I couldn’t find before coming back to Ireland.
The cheap sushi restaurants in the city I lived in for two years. The absolutely abysmal subway where one line breaks down and the whole system falls apart. The neighbourhoods that I used to explore on Sundays. The streets whose names I know. The barista that always knew I wanted a skinny white peppermint mocha with no whip and no foam. The Jays fans invading all of downtown in their jerseys and caps. Everything.
I am good at long distance. But recently, I am not.