Short stories: Homecomings

That morning they walked to school, just like every other morning. It is impossible to say a proper goodbye to 56 children you’ve learned to love, and so we just stood there, hugged the ones we could as they walked past, smiled and waved to the others. We had given our, you’re wonderful and we love you speech the day before anyway. My friend who was there with me cried a little, but I didn’t; it wasn’t real to me. I had only been at the children’s home for a little more than a month, a volunteer from half way across the world who barely understood the language, but already the place felt like home

Home. In the usual sense, home was the U.S., the flat-as-a-pancake Midwest, the house I’d grown up in for the past 16 years. The place that I had all but forgotten, and not unwillingly, while I was in this place of overwhelming beauty, so different from anything I had ever known. I had wanted to come to Nepal for years, and now that I was finally there, I didn’t want to leave for anything. It wasn’t an easy place to be, but I loved it, and I didn’t want to go home.

But the day had come, and so we said our surreal goodbyes, and were dropped off at the airport, for the beginning of a strange journey. I knew what it meant, but I couldn’t feel it yet. I just felt like another adventure, another day, another new thing; later we’d be back at the children’s home, welcomed with hugs and smiles. Right? It must be. Kathmandu airport meant denial, firm refusal to believe in what was happening.

By the time we landed at Bangkok airport, I wasn’t in denial any more. Now I was confused. Our layover was nearly 20 hours, and I was in sort of a daze the whole time. I felt unsure of where I was, where I was going, and why. I was young, just a college freshman, and this was the biggest thing I had ever done. I wasn’t ready for the adventure to be over. Every final boarding call sparked desperate possibilities in my mind; couldn’t we just get on that flight to Delhi, or Abu Dhabi, or Kuala Lumpur anywhere?

The next layover was Hong Kong. By then, the daze was lifted, and I was angry. 19 is a prime age for questioning everything, and I was adamantly frustrated with America’s government, culture, and materialism. I was also relatively convinced that there was nothing I could do to fix the situation, and so my answer was just to get out of it. Hong Kong airport was a stark contrast to the streets of Kathmandu; with its shops and fast food restaurants, it looked more like American