Visiting my parent’s home is always a surreal experience. I usually only get back there a couple of times per year.
As the only member of my family to have relocated, I always feel like somewhat of an outsider when I return. Everyone welcomes me with open arms, of course, but as I observe the inter-personal relationships of those around me, the feeling that “I just don’t belong there” always lingers in the back of my mind.
Some things have changed. My parents have finally cultivated a friendship (it only took them more than twenty-five years), and they publicly act like teenagers in love. There has been some minor remodeling in the house, new appliances, etc. The formerly sleepy road in front of the house now sees a considerably increase in vehicular traffic.
So much more, though, remains the same. Smells are the same. My younger brother still lives at home. My old bedroom remains a monument to my childhood, albeit with over a decade of additional accumulated clutter.
Rummaging through bedroom drawers, I came across a cache of love letters from when I was seventeen…scary stuff. The following 80s flashback is courtesy of “Chel,” who loved quoting song lyrics in her letters.
If language were liquid
It would be rushing in
Instead here we are
In a silence more eloquent
Than any word could ever be
“Language” — Suzanne Vega
Leave a comment