6 Weeks, 3 Days

I love holidays in general by an abnormal amount.  You can usually find me on Valentine's Day wearing blinding amounts of red; my Halloween costume is usually planned about eleven months in advance; and I may not pinch you on St. Patty's day when you're not wearing green, but be prepared for some traumatizing scolding.  Of all the holidays, though, Christmas is my absolute favorite.   I just feel this sense of magic once December roles around and the world is alighted, literally and figuratively.  It's also a celebration of one of my favorite people to ever exist, the Savior of the World.

However, Christmas takes on a whole new meaning this year.  I will have been away from home for six months (HALF A YEAR) almost to the date as I fly in to Jacksonville's airport.  I will be reunited with my childhood, and the best part of my childhood: my best friend, my mom.  I will be reunited with the wonderfully awful humidity and the sounds of the city.  I will be able, for a brief moment in time, to escape from the realities of "growing up" and become the me that I was for seventeen of my eighteen years.  I will be able to see friends and family that I haven't seen for an eternity.  I will be able to hear terrible grammar and be fond of it. I will be able to walk into a real WalMart where I fear for my life.  The street crossing buttons won't be weird and I will have the smell of the sea just a few miles away.

I am living for that day, six weeks and 3 days away, where I will be reunited with home.  My home.