Monday, August 26, 2002
My roommate just returned from Tomball this morning, since she spent part of the weekend at home. Of course, I haven't seen her since Friday; Micki left on Thursday afternoon last week, went home, came back on Friday just before I left, worked on Saturday and Sunday, and then left again on Sunday to go home. That's ten hours of driving in one weekend -- because she was homesick.
Meanwhile, I was debating between leaving on Saturday afternoon, as was my original plan, and staying till midday Sunday. And to tell the truth, I would have preferred to leave on Saturday; I stayed over partly so I wouldn't be cajoled into coming home next weekend.
I think my family misses me much more than I miss them; and when I watch Micki go out of her way to see her family on the weekends, I can't help but feel guilty, like I don't care about them -- which of course isn't true at all. I just don't miss living at home and being around them twenty-four/seven. And I don't think it's the fact that I've been away from them for a year already, because I never felt much homesickness or detachment last year, either.
On Friday night, as I was talking with my mother, she mentioned, "You know what I heard? The University of Houston has one of the best creative writing graduate programs in the state."
I rolled my eyes and snorted, "Yeah, right, like I'm going to come back here." Of course, I understood what she was getting at: There was the wistful hope that I might want to return home after I received my degree from UT.
"You're never going to come back home, are you?" she asked, a tinge of melancholy in her voice.
"No," I answered honestly. "Not if I can help it."
She gave an evil smile. "Unless we pull the plug on your college funds."
I'm so glad she wasn't serious.
| 11:44 AM |
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