I went “home” a few years back, when my son was younger and my oldest daughter a toddler. We were there for a couple of days to attend the wedding reception of someone who used to be my best friend at high school.
The town was the same. My mum lives in a different place now so we had to meet her in the park where I used to while away hours by reading under a tree… the park was the same, but I wasn’t.
The Wedding Reception was stuffed full of familiar faces. Most of the kids that I’d been ignored by as a teenager were there as adults. And yes, they ignored me again. I had no connections with anyone. Even the tentative connections with the bride and her bridesmaids (my other best friend and someone who I used to talk to a lot) were so thin that they almost broke.
Home is where the heart is. My heart isn’t where I grew up anymore. Even if I could live anywhere in the world, I wouldn’t return there.
The place I get homesick for is where I went to Uni and even that is fading now. The place that I want to be is with the family I have created for myself.
You can’t GO home. You carry it with you; it’s where you are at that very moment.
I’ve just been over at Pauline Baird Jones’s blog, where she wrote a post entitled You can go home again. It’s a fun read, that got me thinking. Did I agree? No. No, I don’t…