53 days

I've tried not to say it. I've put it off for a while now. I didn't miss home at first. But I really do miss it now. It didn't really hit me until my Dad told me that he's been counting down the days until I come home: 53 days.

I miss being able to run home if I forgot something. I miss coming home and having Maggie greet me at the door, tail wagging with her ears curled back. I miss Maggie pestering me to let her outside, and inside, and outside, and back inside. I miss Roscoe bounding into the house in search of Maggie's chews. I miss my car and being able to get up and go anywhere whenever I wanted to. I miss going on walks down Main Street in the winter time with my Dad, and having him stop and buy a small hot cocoa from Dunkin because my hands are cold. I miss crawling in bed with Mum on a Saturday morning while she was watching the Today show. I miss riding around in my Dad's truck and listening to him tell stories of when he was my age. I miss fighting with my Mum and storming away, and then coming back a few hours later pretending like nothing even happened. I miss my Dad lecturing me about the importance of family and what family traditions he wishes to create. I miss smelling my Mum's cooking right before a big family gathering.