The first: you notice everything that's different. The big, beautiful building on the corner of Abriendo? Isn't a bed-and-breakfast anymore. There are different baristas at the Starbucks, the one across the street from my aunt's insurance office. The shelves in the YA section of the Rawlings library are full of different books.
Some things though, don't change. I still asked for hockey skates in the wrong size at the rink, and changed them at least twice before they feel good. No matter how shaky I felt on the ice, I didn't fall once. The veteran figure skater, even five years later, still spun across the center of the ice, and I was still surprised when she didn't listen to music. Tom, the manager of the rink, was still there, handing out skates; he used to give us a discount, and we were on a first name basis. I don't think he recognized me, but then again, I've grown up a lot.
Lately, I've been struggling with this idea of home and what it means. Whoever said that home is where the heart is doesn't know what they're talking about, because how can my heart be spread across so many places? And then I go back to Colorado and it's summer and I drive myself around town and I run across the street like I have so many times in the past and it feels like home. And then finally I'm back in Indiana and I'm so excited to sleep in my own bed, and this place, maybe more than any other, feels like home too. And maybe home is elastic and exists in more than one place and it can stretch and change however you need it too. And maybe someday I'll find a place or a person that, more than anything, feels like home to me.