Being Homesick, or, Why Being a Grownup Sucks

I wish I lived in the Ozarks.

I wish I had remembered to apply to schools in Missouri.

I wish I was observant and articulate enough to explain why I wanted to leave Hillsdale.

I wish I hadn't lied to my parents about my boyfriend. Any of them.

I wish I could remember the name of two of the roads in the woods.

I wish I could have managed to keep that pillow my mother made me.

I wish I knew anything about my mother.

I wish I knew anything about my mother's family.

I wish I knew anything about my Dad's family, for that matter.

I wish I knew how to talk to my Mom about my Dad's family.

I wish I didn't have to explain why I have a mother and a Mom, who are not the same.

I wish I knew how to talk to my Dad about my mother.

I wish I had finished that story about my Dad's mom.

I wish I knew my Dad's stepmom.

I wish I had more visits with my Dad's dad.

I wish I hadn't had so much loss in one year.

I wish I could have saved my dog.

I wish I could spend more time with my little sister.

I wish I knew my baby sister better.

I wish I didn't rebel so much against the like-clockwork order of my teen years.

I wish I hadn't learned how to lie so well.

I wish people hadn't believed me.

I wish I hadn't had to leave Missouri.

I wish I didn't get homesick.

I wish I didn't get Momsick and Dadsick.

I wish for one day of one summer of one year in the life I already lived.