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February 17, 2010


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I returned to my childhood home in British Columbia after an abrupt departure and a long, painful absence initiated by my dad's leaving my mom and essentially the entire family.

When I finally returned home, after years of living in the United States, it almost felt as if I was crawling back through the wardrobe. The place had somehow ceased to be real in my mind, and I remember feeling mystified that it actually was there after all, accessible by the very road from whence the journey began in Las Vegas.

As I drove around the old neighborhood, more than once I had the distinct feeling of haunting. Of me haunting, or of me being haunted. It was as if the sunlight played tricks on my eyes and I could see, through the late slant of the hazy beams, a small, golden haired child winding her way, laughing and beckoning and disappearing in and out of the places where I grew up.

Elsita :)

The last time that I visited Holguin and saw my "circulo infantil" many memories came to mind. As a child I saw this place as a huge space but as an adult I realized that it wasn't that big at all. The same thing happened with many other places from my childhood. As we grow old we definitely start seeing the world a lot smaller, not only physically but also emotionally.
Talking about our parents divorce: in my case I remember that time as being a huge rolling ball of emotions that I could not explain. Now I can trace a map of the old feelings and make sense of them, one by one. The same thing happens with places, buildings, streets...I can now make more sense of them but it was a lot interesting the way I saw them as a child.

Missing you!


I managed to visit my Grandmother's house years later, which we had sold when she moved in with us - halfway across the country. I surprised the owners and asked if I could take a photo in front of the house. They were friendly and were happy to let me. It was hard to know that other people were living it, but I am glad that it is not empty.


Well, mine isn't there to go back to. But I do know the tumble of emotion that going beck brings up,though. And I grew up in a trailer. Yeah....not the stereotype of that existence you see in films, but still. I feel the sadness in this post. The past is always there, isn't it? Better to go back, experience it, then shake it off and take your beautiful family for ice cream. :)

Janet M

Beautiful posts about the melacholy of nostalgia.


My mother always wished to show her two grandchildren her hometown of L├╝beck, Germany. In 2001 her dream came true. She showed us the sweet part of her childhood, sprinkled here and there with the world-famous Niederegger marzipan. But she also showed us the house she lived in, restored precisely to its original form after the British bombed it in WWII. We visited her church and her best friend's church, which was bombed on the day of her confirmation. It was a difficult few days, but it helped explain to our kids why my mother always planted a fruit tree in every garden that my sisters and I ever owned.

I love this post; it must have been a sentimental journey to return and write about it.

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