I’m spending the week visiting my parents in the Cleve and it is as psychologically disrupting as always to come back home. On the one hand, there is an innate comfort and security in surroundings that have been familiar since childhood… a gentle reminder of who I was before the train wreck of maturity scarred and jaded my perspective. On the other hand, there is a lurking sense that I grew up and moved on without entirely getting the point of it all.
To bask in the melancholy as much as possible (as is my trademark style), I drove down to the old neighborhood and the beach club to which my family once belonged. This club was the site of many a summer party and will always remind me of volleyball, burgers, swingsets, and bonfires, of fireworks along the lake on the Fourth of July and dangling my feet off the pier with my cousins, all of us bragging and confiding, dissecting and daydreaming.
The club was less welcoming today, and it seemed fitting for it to be November – the off-season, with the beach house boarded up and leaves scattered along the staircase leading down to the cold sand. Even so, I wandered and wondered at the passing of time and the concept of home, the awareness of a world I outgrew yet still and endlessly long for.