Coming Home

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I have been waiting for the last almost seven weeks to get to see my family and my boyfriend again. Saying goodbye to them all that time ago was hard, very hard. I remember when mum and I arrived at the apartment that Sunday evening and it seemed as though everything was wrong (namely because everything was wrong). There was no internet (still isn’t), there were no shops open for us to buy any food for that evening or for breakfast the following day, there was no duvet or pillow for the ‘bed’, and basically everything else was wrong too. I remember becoming hysterical after Friedie had left. I couldn’t contain my sadness and my disappointment and every other emotion that was whirling around inside me. I was terrified to face this new place, where I knew no one and nothing, alone. Luckily the one person in the world who means the most to me was with there beside me to comfort me when I needed her the most. I broke down and cried uncontrollably, huge, wet tears running down my face and onto my clothes and into my hair. She let me wail into her shoulder until she too was covered with foundation and mascara. I could tell she was holding back her own tears. Of course, she did cry, but I knew she would have cried more had I not needed her so badly to be strong for me. She told me I had to stop crying, so I did, because she is my mother and I do what she tells me (some of the time). We had to go and get some fresh air. It seemed like we had been sitting inside for an eternity. It had started off with Paul driving us to the airport that morning. I say morning, but it was really more the middle of the night than anything. From there we waited in the airport. That was hard too, because every second I spent with Paul beside me, I knew I was getting closer to having to say goodbye to him. When I eventually did have to say goodbye, I started to cry. I found walking away from him seriously difficult to do, and the only reason I actually did it was because mum was there to console me when we got to the other side of the frosted glass. She was there the whole time-on the plane beside me as I slept, when we arrived at Munich airport and had to try and get train tickets to Nuremberg, on the train journey that seemed to last another eternity. I was so tired and sick of sitting down, but she was always there to my side to make small talk with. We both knew we were just trying to pretend like it wasn’t all really happening. Mum had been dreading that day for months, ever since she’d found out I would be going abroad for six months as part of my college course. I hadn’t really started to worry about it until the very end. Then, on that long train ride to my new place of abode, I began to fear like she had feared. That evening when we eventually arrived and during my sobbing session, I pleaded with her to bring me home with her. I know I wasn’t making it any easier for her; in fact I was probably breaking her heart with my desperate attempts to return home with her. I couldn’t face the thought of her leaving me the next day and me not seeing her again for what would seem like forever. The idea of her boarding a plane without me made me break down even more. That was when we went out and got food. She knew me so well. The food helped, but still didn’t change the fact that at that time I was truly miserable. The next morning would not be any easier. Waking up almost as early as the morning before, we arose to the tiny room that was, and still is, my living space. I think we had a granola and a Rice Krispies cereal bar for breakfast that day, luckily mum had brought them from home. I asked would I walk with her as far as the train station. She said no, she would go on her own. I don’t know was this so she could cry in peace, or so I could have another few minutes rest in bed after she left. Seeing her go was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face. Closing the apartment door after the elevator had descended and taken my mother out of sight was so hard. Rushing to the window and opening it to the freezing cold air, so I could stick my head out and wait for her as she left the building was easy. I heard the front door open and saw my mother leaving. I waved frantically at her, and although she looked up towards me, she could not see me behind a part of the building that jutted out. I could not yell down to my mother, four floors beneath me, as it was still too early and I thought I would wake people up. Even if I had yelled down, I don’t know would she have heard me. There was a sharp breeze outside and my calls could have been carried away by the German wind. Or I could have opened my mouth to call out to her, and perhaps no words would have come; only a dry and course whispering sound. That was the last time I saw my mother in person. That was almost seven weeks ago. The time has passed, but slowly. I have not hugged my mother in almost seven weeks, and for me that has never happened before. Even at home if we have a flaming argument about something, chances are we’ll be back hugging one another again that same evening. It’s just how we are. She is my best friend in the whole world.

This weekend I go home for three days. It is a surprise for my brother’s 18th birthday. I have been waiting almost seven weeks for this one weekend. I’m coming home

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