I always loved returning to Boston.
Whether I came from another city, another state, another country— I genuinely felt at peace whenever I saw the Charles loom in the distance, the brownstones come into view, the familiar avenues stretching before me. “Beautiful,” I’d mutter under my breath.
But returning to Boston this time around was different.
During the ride from the airport, I barely looked out my taxi cab window, engaging in lazy small talk with my Pakistani driver. When I arrived at my apartment, I struggled with my three pieces of luggage, using my big Delsey to prop the main door open. It took two trips to get them all in front of my apartment door.
My hallway smelled like smoke. Someone had burned breakfast. My neighbor’s German Shepherd puppy was now barking like an adult. When I entered my apartment, I was greeted by my roommate and her boyfriend. We exchanged hugs, some updates and a few stories. I noticed the pairs of shoes strewn about our foyer, the beer bottles piled up on the recycling bin. I noticed the dishes in the sink. The couch was placed at an odd angle.
I entered my room and it bore the remnants of my hasty exit last December— the haphazardly made-up bed, the stray sock on the floor, the sweaters on the drying rack. I took off my coats and just collapsed into what felt like exhaustion. And I stayed there for days and waited— for Boston to return to me.
