As the weather outside gets warmer and warmer, hinting of spring to come and of the hot and humid summer after that, the feeling of homesickness in me grows. Every year without fail I’ve been in the United States at least once. Until now. It’s been a year and a half now since I’ve been in Los Angeles, my birthplace and the place I used to associate with family – my grandparents were there, my aunts used to be there, and much of my mother’s extended family is still there along with many old family friends.
Lately, every time I hear the word “airplane” or “abroad” or “airport” I feel a sharp stab somewhere above my midriff. It’s hard to explain, but it’s a sort of tug that’s present much of the time. Almost every day feels like that sort of odd day when you know you’re facing a long plane-ride that will take you half-way around the world. Almost every day is that weird weather that my memories connect so vividly to the season in which my family and I used to fly to the US.
It’s crazy to feel homesick towards a place that I lived in for barely three years. two of which I can’t remember because I was obviously much too young. It’s crazy to miss a period of time, a house, an event, a type of breeze so badly that it literally aches. It’s crazy to look around while riding the bus and trying to imagine that the buildings outside are those of another city, another place in time entirely. It’s just crazy.
And yet, I can’t help it. I’m homesick.