When I was still young enough to believe all of my dreams would come true, I often heard the phrase “You can’t ever go home”.  I lived and grew up in the only house I knew for some 27 years, and  I left for college and came home, I’d stay away for weeks and still came home, of course you can go home. 

Even when it was sold out from under me and I exiled myself to another region, I would still go by the old place on vacations,  the new owners had cut down the tree my father and I planted when I was 6, it was taller than the house when I left.  They have probably rescaped the backyard, and discarded the carcasses of beloved pets that I still hold dear to my heart,  including an injured crow that was being killed by it’s comrades, of course all attempts to save it were in vain.  As vain as my belief that you could still go home.

It was when my child of  15 years asked to see my old house that I finally understood, as I collapsed in the street screaming from the pain and the loss , that it isn’t that you can’t go home, it’s just that you shouldn’t.


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