New World, Old Patterns
Days at home begin to linger, warm as a lizard in the sun.
At our house, lizards are everywhere. They’ve always been prolific in the summertime, scaling the white columns on our back porch in Mandeville, but something about this year—what has, ironically, turned out to be one of the longest and most beautiful Louisiana springs in recent memory—is different.
After a few too many days spent alone in my Baton Rouge apartment, I decided to relocate back home for the duration of the pandemic. My youngest sister has also moved back, her freshman year at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette cut short, and we both find ourselves sleeping in our childhood bedrooms again, plastic glow-in-the-dark stars still affixed to the ceiling.
During the days, our black lab, Delta, keeps me company while I work remotely. The evenings are often spent sitting in a neighbor’s driveway as we take turns cooking dinner, a paper plate of crawfish pasta or homemade burgers in hand. From our folding chair circle of parents and slightly older children, we talk about what is happening in the world.
Growing up, our house was the house, the gathering place where neighbors and friends were always coming or going. We didn’t bother locking our front door for a solid decade. This year, however, was my mother’s first with all three of us out of the house, and I imagine the empty house feels twice as big without the elephant sounds of slamming doors or screaming teenagers.
Living at home as an adult, I find myself wary of slipping back into old patterns. But among the daily waves of uncertainty, the sense of familiarity only home can provide is something to lean on, something to be thankful for—for this time together, for the noise, for the abundant, stubborn signs of life each place I look.