July, 2017
Quite often, home isn’t a place, it’s people. After studying abroad, I had never been more ready to go there.
I had anticipated a horrible crash and convinced myself that we were never going to make it. The whole week I had been expecting disaster; I wouldn’t find my passport when I checked my pocket for the hundredth time, I would get lost in the hills of Zurich, I wouldn’t be able to carry my bags up the torturous flights of stairs at the train platform, the list goes on. Despite my anxieties, we finally touched down in Perth. Sweating in my two coats, scarf and heaviest pair of shoes, I made my way to the baggage claim. The bright lights stung my jetlagged eyes and my nerves grew with every black suitcase that passed by on the rickety conveyor belt. Weighed down by my belongings from the past six months, I struggled through customs and towards the arrivals gate. A slither of fear crept into my head; what if my parents aren’t there? I turned the corner and saw dozens of smiling faces, all waiting with cameras at the ready. Then I spotted my parents, my dad wearing the same old faded blue jeans, my mum poised with her iPad. I bee-lined for them and went straight into my dad’s arms. I squashed myself into his warm chest and felt the tears escaping my eyes. At last, I was home.
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