Homesick

I just want to go home!

I hear my little girl utter these choked words over the phone, and it is everything I can muster to force myself to stay where I am; with every fiber of my being, I want to -- no need to run to her rescue. I have been in her shoes many times, and with her sobs, memories of homesickness jab viciously at the upper recesses of my diaphragm.

Suddenly I’m 15 again. My heart is broken, and I feel terribly alone. I had traveled six hours away from our family vacation spot on the Colorado River to spend the last few nights with my grandparents. I had vigorously pressed my cause of leaving my family there, fiercely determined to be closer to my boyfriend for the last few days of this vacation. It couldn't wait two more days; I was that lovesick. So when he broke up with me over the phone, while I sat alone on the bed in my grandma’s room, all I wanted to do was “go home,” yet I couldn’t; my home was empty. And it wasn’t really home that I wanted anyway. I wanted my family, my people. But my people were all at the river, waterskiing, swimming, and lying around, tanning and reading books under the hot desert sun. But I was here, shivering and heartbroken. My poor grandma, I’m sure, tried her best to comfort me with what few words she could find for this pathetic, unrequited teenager, but somehow, “There are plenty more fish in the sea; you’ll soon forget about him” didn’t quite bandage the gaping wound. It seems almost laughable to me now, looking back. But not then. What I wouldn’t have given for even a phone call from my mom, yet she was in a place where no phones would reach.

So when Abby begs me, in between sobs, to come and get her from her grandma’s house, a mere two-mile trip away, I so empathize with her and want to grab my keys and head for the door. But instead, I do what I know she needs most; I soothe her with words from her people, words of comfort and calm, knowing it’s not home she really wants anyway; it’s familiarity; it’s reassurance from the ones who love her most in this world (and only infinitesimally more than the ones she’s currently with).

It’s okay, my love; you’re going to be just fine. Mama will sing you to sleep; just keep the phone close beside your ear; I’m here.