on going home

Monday, December 30, 2013

Today I returned home to Portland. 

What a sentence, today I returned home. 

I've written before about going 'home' to a place that doesn't hold your life anymore, most recently here. (On ghost towns.) Every time I go back, I think I'm well acquainted with the sensation, and every time, it hits me solidly in the chest. (Or doesn't hit me, it feels like… nothing.)

Above is the bedroom I grew up in. It's empty now, as you can see. Both my parents live in houses that are half empty, unused. When I go home, and stand in the places I used to live, I find it hard to match my memories to my present experience. Colorado, for me, has become a minefield of empty places and hollow shells. 

Around Christmas this can be quite depressing, actually, as these used to be places that were filled with warmth and happiness, where I had many Christmases. The sight above diminishes my adolescent memories. It's revealed for what it is: an empty room. 

This is not a home. This is not my home. 

And as melodramatic as this post may be, the feelings are valid. I think next year I will do things differently. I will stay with Steele instead, where his bedroom stays the same, and the house is full. It's a different kind of pain, but I'd like to hold my memories in their place and not let them deteriorate. 

1 comment :

  1. I experienced the same feelings when I went home to be with my family for Christmas... my childhood bedroom held a mattress, a step ladder, and a box with a lonely tv. I moved out earlier this year and it's so foreign to see the room I grew up in so removed from the fact that I used to spend so much time in there.


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