“Coming home for the summer” used to mean something very different for me. The last day of school was accompanied by a genuine feeling of being released – because we were. The end of term when you’re away at boarding school carried a different weight: we rolled up mattresses and emptied our desks and dorm lockers. The more frugal among us finally splurged, taking leisurely walks to the tuck shop, while the rest of us bit our nails and scraped the bottom of our provisions stash.
The six weeks of holiday – away from teachers and housemistresses, from the routine of a morning bell and a prefect-enforced lights out at night – seemed endless. We would see our parents and be at home again, and the change of pace and location was as good as money. Even though summer rarely delivered on the promise, the possibilities were vast.
Now I am mostly foreign, visiting home for the first time in the summer time (for a whole month), and I am making plans. Leaving my apartment for such a long stretch is a singular thing. My return will not have the frisson of excitement a new term brought: a new bunkmate, a different class. Everything will be as I left it, except my plants will hopefully be bigger (a kind friend has offered to water them in my absence). But it’s also not exactly dissimilar: I must eat all perishable foods, and clean every surface. My parents will be waiting not outside the assembly hall, but at home in London.
What remains is the feeling of possibility. Where does it come from? Well, nowhere that makes sense. Experience means we know better. But the magic is in the speculation about what could happen – suddenly unlocked only when you have the luxury of all that time back home.
