It will be months until I sleep in this bed again with the warm blankets and the silk pillowcases.
It will be months that I get to hug my family and see my friends. It will be months without singing old songs at the kitchen table with my grandma and grandpa.
It will be months of yearning to see mountains, to feel at home.
It will be months of speaking in a tongue that is not my own, and navigating an area of which I am completely unfamiliar with.
It will be months that I will not drive to my favorite spot in the middle of the night to get a chocolate milkshake and to sit in my car, because that’s what I would do after soccer practice all those years, and cherishing those memories is as sweet as my chocolate milkshake.
It will be months without my daily coffee run, a ritual I made for myself to take care of my mental well-being during the cold and dark winter months that just stuck.
Months without the community that waves at me when I come around the corner just a little bit too fast. At the red light that didn’t exist until a few years ago.
At a place that always greets me with beauty, no matter the time of year. A place where my people tell me to go far but to never forget where I come from.
And when I ride up the mountain with the music blasting, or sit around a table singing Alice Cooper, or go hiking with the people I went to school with all those years; they tell me to not forget where I come from.
But how could I forget? This place is home, and no matter what I do or where the universe takes me, these will always be the mountains of which I belong.
It will be months, but it won’t be forever.