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My flight DL4493 landed in LAX yesterday. I stood outside Terminal 5 waiting for the Westwood FlyAway to meet my sister who works at an elementary school in the area. Sat around for over an hour, thinking I missed the bus, reading The Goldfinch, hoping my phone didn't die.

Once I got into my sister's car, we drove over to Larchmont, picked up a several dozen cupcakes for a wedding she's organizing, had a dramatic moment where coffee spilled all over her dress, proceeded to temper the situation with water, and makeup, then got dropped off at the Vermont / Beverly metro stop. Met my mom at the North Hollywood stop and finally entered my home.

I haven't lived at home since going off to college 6 years ago. Over the years I notice more of the idiosyncrasies that I took for granted growing up. Narrow doorways, low sinks, two desks in our bedroom, the weird creak of the kitchen drawer, my mom's mild hoarding habits. 

Sitting around over coffee in the morning, my aunt, mother, and neighborhood friend chat in korean about my eyebrows to my eyelids to my nails to the girth of my thighs. Then we get on the topic of boys, lack thereof, weddings, and then I turn the conversation to taxidermy-ing our dog, Smoothie, once she dies.

My dog's about 12 years old now, which seems crazy. She seems fatter and unusually aggressive during our hike at Runyon Canyon. We stream past could-be actors and actresses, families speaking in Spanish, dog poop, and exercising bootcampers. 

I take in every experience and reflect on how it impacted me and my life and who I am. There's rarely such a static environment you can go back to, to reflect on the past self that absorbed it all.