Homecoming.

That's a weird feeling. 

When I was living here, as a teenager,  I've just wanted to get away. Far.
When 3 males live under the one roof, in 2 small rooms, things can get nasty.
Our mum, even with all best intentions, couldn't defuse an anger and a growing missunderstaning between my dad, my brother and me. So we fighted, a lot. We all had a great expectension towards each other but we didn't live up to them.
A lot of bad words have been shouted, the doors beeing slammed with an anger and the tears...a lot of tears, enough to fill a deep moat to keep us apart.
Because we have never talked about the feelings, the scars grew bigger and deeper. Never attended, they wait there, like a landmine with a broken fuse, ready to explode at any moment.
Now, on the surface, it's all look very good. We eat together, chit chat together, we even crack a joke or two. But it's all flat, we act like a people who has only meet today.
Everytime, when I visit my parents, I hope that this time will be better; more intimate; we will talk, and laugh, and smile.
If I only could duplicate what I have created with my wife Joanna, I delude myself from time to time, this atmosphere of a honesty, understanding and love, just for one day. Everything would be better.
And then the bad spell of the box flats kicks in again; we eat in silence and then we watch TV, mostly sport and our dad talks politics...
Till the next time.

Leszek

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