I just returned from visiting my boyhood home; an area
when my sisters and my remaining parent still live. My previous post addressed the alien like
experience, coupled with a dreamlike recollection of places I use to know so intimately but now are changed. After taking care of family business, and spending time with my loved ones, it was
time to trek back to my home, Atlanta Georgia; or Hotlanta to some; and Oz of
the South for me. As my wife picked me
up at the curb of baggage claim, and Oscar howled his welcoming
“We missed you
soooo much daddy”
I continued to feel disjointed with my surroundings. That persisted for the rest of the evening and part of
today. We’re back into our routines now, and
things are all in their familiar places; but I must comment on a stutter in my usual reflex motions towards those items I had grown so familiar.
It’s
like I’m not fully adjusted to being ‘here’ from ‘there’ in the same way I
experienced the familiar-but-not when I was ‘there.’ Feeling as if I
were ‘here’ and looking for the common features to be present, but were not, 'there'. How’s that for being as clear as mud?
It’s official, tho, my wife refuses to let me drive during
these periods of readjustment. That’s
for more than just my personal safety; it’s all part of her public service and
civil responsibility to keep me from being an obstacle to my fellow
citizens. But with that levity aside, I
am in a mental disoriented state and I would like to let it be known, that may very well be how
I’ve grown to identify ‘home.’ I was
toying with the notion that home was about the people in a particular place; and
that much is obviously true. Yet, I’ve
come to appreciate, if only for this Spartan march of hours, that home has
a lot to do with the routines and rituals within those conditions I
mentioned. The familiar is the key part
of home. Now, where did I put my wallet?
No comments:
Post a Comment