Nasty and I went back to Godalming, his hometown, 40 minutes by train south of London, for the weekend.
I’ve always found the name odd. I always like to think it’s “god damning” or something. (!)
I initially hesitated in going back. It always takes a long time for me to get into the mood of something, and on Friday, I was in the mood for job and flat-hunting and I didn’t really want to break the flow.
But I went anyways. The devil.
And he’s right. It was good to get out of London. Get away from the city. Be somewhere different. Breathe fresh air. Be in a small town. See different people.
It was pitch dark on a large grassy field and when you look up, it’s nothing but stars.
And for one moment, everything, EVERYTHING, is fine.
Going about Guildford one afternoon with his mom, sister and brother, I suddenly realize, for the first time, that I actually miss my family.
Until then, I’ve missed things about home, but nothing about family as a whole.
But all of a sudden, as I watch them banter and joke and fight, they remind me of the little things that make a family a family. The little things that happen when you are with family. The things you talk about, the things you say to each other, the things you are able to do.
The comfort of familiarity. The feeling of warmth and care.
And I miss them.