I just spent 6 days at home, without Adonis. I haven’t been home that long, with or without Adonis, probably since college summers.

It’s like magic; the remembering, the familiarity enveloping and comforting. The worn corners…the old blended colors of the carpet…the scratched thresholds…the same light switch that is blocked by a wooden bookcase that somehow your hand remembers to navigate around. It’s like magic.

But home is also where the worst demons can show themselves: the same short tempers, routine friction of too small a space accommodating now adults instead of teenagers. The bedsheets are outdated the crooked pictures taken with flawed film instead of the clarity of digital. Everything representing what was, not what is.