Some of the strongest memories I have of my childhood are related to food. Grilled cheese and tomato soup, Boston baked beans from my family's special recipe, biscuits and gravy, my dad's chilli, and cornbread drizzled with honey. Blueberry muffins and pineapple upside down cake and toasted pumpkin seeds and gumbo with creole seasoning and homemade caramel that's warm even when it's cold. I remember days in my kitchen with the smell of delicious things in the air and a full oven, sitting barefoot on the counter, drying dishes and laughing while my sister read Jean Kerr aloud and my parents listened and chatted and cooked in sizzling pans on our stove. The kitchen was always so warm, the best room in the house.

I was just thinking about cornbread and honey a few minutes ago, and I started crying. I realized that I'm growing up. I'm not ready to grow up yet. I miss my old home and I miss my grandma and I miss my uncle and I miss believing that everything was gonna be okay, and thinking that bad people were only in fairy tales. I miss having blind faith in my family and I miss being happy. I miss the days when I could come home after a bad day, and my parents would give me hot cocoa and something warm to eat. Like cornbread and honey. Better than any cake, like coming home to a full house and loving somebody. Even more lonely than nobody loving you is having nobody to love.

I miss cornbread and honey. I wanna go home.