There is something regressive, something heart-wrenching, something glorious about travelling back to your hometown. It’s like entering a time warp or having an out of body experience.
Looking at the way you used to live, the way you behaved, the things you thought. Maybe your old room has changed, maybe it’s the same, maybe your loved ones are around, maybe some aren’t but then always…some remnants remain. The whole breakfast-making cycle, watering potted plants or tending to a kitchen garden, an old wretched-looking toy, musty unused blankets, an old forgotten corduroy jacket, an ill-fitting pair of flared jeans which you had so painstakingly selected as a teen, an effort that seems so ridiculous and wasted now. Visiting your favorite haunts, the place where someone’s lips touched yours for the first time, where you met up with your friends, the derelict or defunct movie hall which you frequented, the neighborhood restaurant which used to be the bane of your existence because your parents never ventured beyond it, the tree which sheltered your long boring summer afternoons, the yellowing comfort of your old books.
And the best thing?
To be able to share all this with someone. It could be someone you hold hands with when you’re bidding your home adieu once again. It could be a little warm snugly being, whose bright eyes uplift you, make you feel like you’re not leaving things behind just moving forward, growing. Or it could be your new self. A quiet smile. A wide grin. And a realization that a part of you never left and a part of it you will always carry inside your heart. Forever.