You Can’t Always go Home

Time passes. Places change. The movie theater you spent Saturday afternoons sneaking free popcorn closed, and is destined to a fate of law offices or a big box store selling books on tape. The store front that’s been everything from custom furniture to children’s clothing is awaiting its next reincarnation — for rent stamped on its front window.

The longer you wait to go home, the more subtle, yet life altering changes will occur. Houses change color. Roads, local goverment red tape pending, are repaved. If you’re really lucky, there’s a shiny new stoplight at your least favorite intersection. Evolution happens. Memories change. The place you knew is still there, it’s just has Botox.

People age. They move away. They dissapear. The person you saw last time you were here looks like a slightly sallowed version of themselves featuring a new forehead wrinkle and tired eyes. Their memories have faded. Your memories of them tarnish with the realization of impending expiration.

The old pass away. Leaving behind trinkets for flea markets and furniture for estate sales. They linger briefly, as if to say “it’s yours now, take care, be well.”

The young die too. They leave behind collections of electronic devices only unlocked by friends and hearbroken lovers. Unlike the old, they really linger. You see them in the Safeway parking lot, late at night where they used to drink tallboys of PBR after football games. At the beach, they’re somewhere between the lighthouse a first buoy, hoping now’s their chance to float away. On the late night drive home, they’re there, watching headlights bounce from tree to tree, reflecting off the damp asphalt. They wait, hoping some day soon, they’ll escape.

You can’t always go home. Home changes. You change. You want it to bring you comfort — memories of Saturday morning soccer games and weekend walks through the creek. Instead it’s a reminder — move on. Some day, they will too.