On the Friday after finishing organic chemistry lab, I impulsively decided to reward myself with a stroll to downtown Munich. I hadn't bothered to check the weather, because the days before were sunny, but it started snowing when I was in the metro, and by the time I arrived it had intensified to thick flurries. Shit. This is part of the price I have to pay for the temporary high I get whenever I make self-indulgent, impulsive decisions.
I took the 16:24 train back home, but arrived at Munich Central from my stroll (it's not as much of a stroll as it is braving wind and snow) early, so I decided to get some McDonald's fries (for free from the app!). I put the warm fries in my tote bag, and I could smell it even through my mask.
There was a purple haired lady sitting across me on the train. To my left was a family with two small children. The smaller one could not sit still, nor would she stop squealing. A year ago this might've bothered me, but now it doesn't as much. The tiny girl ran along the coach back and forth, eventually tripping on my feet and falling—I couldn't catch her on time. I was worried, but her mother insisted it's fine.
The girl did not cry (what a good girl). Instead, she ran off to the purple haired lady, who a few moments later showed her videos of baby goats jumping on a couch. Just like that she was laughing and squealing again, and it reminded me of myself a little bit.
No, not myself, I thought on the walk back home. It felt strange to say that. The girl reminded me of myself, but from a very long time ago. When was the last time I was that carefree? 'Ah yes, papa's girl is a brave, smart girl,' my papa used to say whenever I fell down while running. 'Look at her! Getting back up on her feet like it's nothing. Not a single tear shed!'
It's so cold outside. I hate the squelch of the wet snow under my feet. The fries in my bag must be getting cold too. I miss the sun. I miss the tropical heat of home. Where is home? Home is maybe eating fries with soft serve ice cream as a dipping sauce at McDonald's, like how Kathy and I used to when we were little. There was a playground with a yellow slide in the one we went to most often. You could see your blurry reflection on the scratched metal of the slide. I can't remember the colour of the walls or the tables, but it always smelled like salt and wafer cones.
When I was in fourth grade, our McDonald's was taken over by another restaurant. A pirate logo replaced the iconic golden double arches. I hated it. I wanted my ice cream and fries and yellow slide back.
I want my ice cream and fries and yellow slide back, I thought. There were tears pooling in my eyes. I could almost taste the salt of classic french fries and the sweetness of cold, milky soft serve. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I whispered it like a mantra, a prayer, under my breath, under the mask I wore. The sound was lost in the snow, which hadn't stopped falling—nor had my tears—and yet the words felt like fire on my lips and an ugly, rusted blade in my chest.
I miss home. I miss me, I thought. My shoelace was untied. I stopped and bent over to tie it. I need to prepare dinner and pack lunch for work tomorrow. I need to write my lab report. I have an exam next week. And just like that, my tears stopped falling. The hole in my heart was still there, but I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and carried it back with me to a home that was not mine.
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