Coming Home

One year and five months ago, I lived in a cave. I could perform basic skills like math and obtaining food. But like a robot, I lacked any signs of liveliness.

I wandered the halls, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. Everyone passed by, even the friends, for I had mastered the art of blending in. For me, there was no point in interaction, no reason to be happy.

Three syllables was what it took: Want to dance? It was sweet while it lasted, but the next days were excruciatingly awkward. Though all I wished for was friendship, I reverted back to antisocial Joyce, and played the avoiding game. I might’ve broken a part of his heart unintentionally, yet that night he had mended mine. Surprisingly, I was more confused than I had ever been before. Luckily, I had the whole summer to think it over.

Three months of sunshine, and the layers of unnecessary fortification around my heart slowly undid itself. My mouth learned how to emit laughter and my lips to curve upward. I watched myself make others laugh and spewed out words of encouragement. I overflowed happiness and nothing could control it – I was finally coming home.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of coming home