I’m sitting at the bar. There is a special event going on at this restaurant I frequent. This neighborhood I live in is filled with musicians, vegetarians, artists. I’ve heard some people refer it as the Berkeley of the East Coast. In any case, it reminds me of home in many ways. People bike through the streets lined with bungalow-style homes. The faces I see are diverse in styles and colors and smiles.

The women singing now both have deep alto voices and harmonize well together. I’ve sat at this seat many times before, but in different places, in other people’s hometowns, in my own hometown.

I thought I could so this. But as the weeks pass, I’m finding it’s harder than I thought it’d be. I don’t want my pride to stop me from going back. I left home to follow my heart, but managed to forget it back there.

I keep having to remind myself that every person’s story will be different. That I don’t have to pressure myself into sitting at many different seats, at similar counters, listening to similar voices and stories. I don’t have to sit here if I don’t want to. I can sit wherever I want. And where I want is at home.


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