Pieces of Home

Image courtesy: Katherine Fivgas

This time of year, as the leaves change color and fall, only to be forgotten come spring, I think about the way the things around me change and are replaced by something new. Some things stay while others change, but the feeling never leaves. One of those things is home. I have my childhood home, where my family still lives. I have the homey feeling I found with my friends from middle and high school. And then I have my newest home, made of faces I’ve come to know and love during my time here at the University of Georgia. This is an ode to all those people, old and new, who feel like home.

Sprawled with my hands curled beneath my head as a makeshift pillow, I lay warm on the tan cotton sheets of my Yiayia’s (grandmother’s) bed, coming in and out of a sleepy daze, and I hear her murmuring in Greek on the phone while the Food Channel plays on the small TV in the corner. 

Driving recklessly through my school’s neighborhood, the music coming from the tinny speakers of my first (and only) car can barely be heard over the squeals of joy and laughter coming from passenger seat and the middle seat of the second row as my friend since pre-k Erika, and my younger sister Sophia gossip about the trials and travesties of senior year of high school and the eighth grade.

Lying at the foot of my parents' bed, with my childhood pets curled next to me, I watch Adam Sandler movies and South Park episodes with my mom, dad, and sister. My dad chastises my sister for saying the curse words and understanding the lewd jokes, while my mom complains and pretends to hate the show, even though we all know she likes it just as much. If it's winter, the fireplace in their room is on, giving everything a warm touch, while in the other seasons, the ceiling fan spins lazily above us, as if it is joining in on our evening relaxations. 

Cold tiles give way to goose bumps on my skin as my childhood babysitter and now caretaker of my grandmother, Xochitl, washes my hair in the laundry room sink for me. Evening indulging my whims as I grew older, as I said, she did a better job than I did-especially last summer when I injured my arm and couldn't lift it above my head. She gives me compliments and asks about my day as her expert hands massage circles into my scalp and lovingly wrap the towel around my head when she's done.

Sticky fingers wrap around the soon-to-be-leaking cup of froyo doused in condensed milk and gummy bears as I sit on the curb of my local yogurt land with Arden, Ainsley and Amelia. Always planned at the last second, we show up right before close, sitting on the curb, talking around our spoons about whatever comes to mind—laughing, crying, being. I always fall asleep with a smile on my face, but I wake up with a stomachache on those nights. 

I writhe in the dance circle as cups splash me and sweaty shoulders brush my own. My friends stand with me, laughing and twirling along. No matter where we are, we have a good time and an even better dance as I watch the smiles on the faces of the girls around me. Shout out to Lindsay, Mary, Foster, Molly, and everyone else I’ve met at the finest place in the land. I could have never made it without you. 

I struggle to keep a smile off my face, muscles cramping. Your jokes are so unfunny, but the smile on your face makes it hard not to smile right back. The jam between your country music and my “indie girl” music (as you call it) plays in the background. I don’t know where we are going or what we are doing, but in the car with you, Hemin, everything makes sense.

These are just a few of the moments and people who make me who I am. I love you all, and I appreciate the good and the bad that come with creating and finding new homes.

Strike Out,

Katherine Fivgas

Editor: Stella Turner

Athens