Home again, home again.
Emphasis on the again.
Four years ago this time, I was packing up my extra-long twin sheets, storage bins and shower shoes and making my way up to the University of Florida. Now, one dorm room, a basement apartment, un apartamento en España and two houses later, my old room and I are reunited.
Not much has changed.
An oddly contorted sculpture of a running angel still sits proudly on my bookshelf (advanced ceramics senior year). An oriental puppet from a floating market in Thailand hangs above my bedpost where it’s been since tenth grade. And then there’s my autographed 8x11 photo of Robert Redford, gazing at me with that steely stare that I just can’t escape (no really, I’ve tried, and it doesn’t matter where I sit).
Of course, the suitcases and boxes cluttering my floor are a recent addition, and for some reason there is a bar of men’s soap on my bathroom counter—MKMen, face bar (much manlier than facial soap). Then there’s me.
Twenty-two, graduated, and unemployed. Not exactly what my 18-year-old self had in mind.
But that’s OK. God had other plans.
Right now, that’s Melbourne and raising support to work with a ministry in Chile, and I’m ready cannon ball into the deep end.
Sure they call it Melboring, sure the streets are deserted by 9, but I’ve already eaten one home-cooked meal, I’m long over-do to spend some time with the padres, and I get to sleep in my very own, very comfy bed. Again.
Goodnight Robert.
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