I’ve been home, staying at my grandmother’s, for the past week. My almost ten-year-old nephew sleeps on a mat on the floor of her bedroom, while I take my spot on the daybed placed perpendicular to her bed. Three generations sharing one room in a simple two-bedroom farmhouse built over twenty years ago. The house has gone through its share of changes, and we keep renovating it as it’s becoming apparent this place isn’t just a temporary shelter anymore. It’s home.
People are often surprised that I come home so often. I usually say it’s because I want to spend time with my grandmother. And that’s true, but the deeper reason is that I need the reset, too. I’ve probably said it many times before, but I can’t help reflecting on the stark contrast between my life here and my life abroad. I’ve come to appreciate the slowness of home for when life elsewhere becomes too hectic.
Lately, I’ve been waking up to the alarm of roosters crowing. On some days, I’ve already finished a full round of errands, like taking my grandmother to her appointments, before my workday has even begun. One morning, I laced up and went for a run at 6 a.m., forgetting just how intense the sun gets by the time I return. The heat has been putting me off running early as even a minute’s indecision means losing precious shade. I hope I’m not losing fitness just yet.
My grandmother’s love for plants means the house is surrounded by a wild, beautiful variety I can never quite name. I didn’t inherit her green thumb, and I worry they won’t survive under my care. Still, there’s something comforting about being here. The town feels like a time capsule, a place where everything moves a little slower. Things have changed, but not too much — even the same traditional politicians are back campaigning for Monday’s elections.
