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On the Plane Home

At a certain point, it truly seems like it’s never going to end. Even something so short as a month feels like years, and every day feels like two. It’s the illusion of time that makes you check your journal for what happened this morning, or the day before yesterday, but remember inside jokes and friendly teasing like it happened three minutes ago. It’s being with people I feel like I’ve known for years—but really only 28 days—and laughing till we cry and crying till we laugh. It’s all eleven of us squeezing into one or two beds and talking for hours, until someone comes in and tells us that we’re being too loud, we should go to sleep.

It still doesn’t feel real that we’re going back to our houses. We’re not driving to the airport, we’re just riding the bus to a farther city. We’re not saying goodbye to our instructors, they’re just going to the store in the morning. They’ll be back in a couple hours.

This doesn’t feel real. It’s so confusing.

How am I going home when I’m already home?

All I want is to take a warm bucket shower after walking up the huge hill and eat warm tortillas with my host family in San Antonio Palopó, or talk to Carolina in San Juan La Laguna. But I also deeply want to hug my mom and my brother, to get annoyed at them, to feel wood floors beneath my feet. I just want to be home. But I don’t know where that is anymore. Confused doesn’t begin to cover it. Emotionally, I am absolutely, completely, and totally lost.

To Guatemala Group B: I miss you guys.