Lost In Space

 You can't go home again. Thomas Wolfe wrote a whole book about it. If you haven't read the novel, it tells the story of a writer who wrote a book, as writers will, about his family and his hometown. And as it turns out, the folks back home are not happy about it. Wolfe's protagonist, George Webber, goes off on a journey that takes him to New York, Paris, and Berlin. Eventually he returns to the United States, seeing it at last with new eyes. 

I have not written a novel. But I have written a blog. I have made reference to a number of the people and the places where I grew up. I have, for the most part, remained in the good graces of those whom I write about, being careful to change names whenever I feel like I may brush a little close to someone's ego or privacy. I have been able to return again and again, most recently to bid a fond farewell to my mother.

And now I find myself wondering if I can go home again. Should there be quotation marks around that word? I live in Oakland. I raised a son there. He has moved on, but having burned no bridges, he still has a place to sleep if he needs it. Or have a sandwich. I am dedicated to preserving the way station for him as my mother did for all those years. 

But now my mother's house is no longer available. Options have become profoundly limited. Decades ago, I wrote lovingly about my hometown and the way I left behind the front range of the Rocky Mountains for a new backdrop closer to the water. I figured I could always go back. If I wanted. 

Back in the day, I was all but incapacitated by homesickness. Spending the night at a friend's house just down the street wasn't a possibility. I struggled right up until the moment that I couldn't make the leap from Boulder to Santa Fe for my freshman year of college. I truly believed that if I left, I wouldn't be allowed back in. Or that the place from which all those memories emanated would shimmer briefly for a moment, and then disappear forever. I needed to stay there to keep that from happening. 

During my last visit, a cursory inspection let me know that there were still pieces of what I had known, places I could visit, and people who could be gathered there to meet me. But the river of time has also kept flowing, and now so have I. Very early one morning recently, I woke to with a start to the nagging question: "If I had stayed in Boulder, would my mother still be alive?" It's a multiverse kind of question, and one that shows off a little too many comic books in my youth. 

My youth is gone. And so, in many ways, is my home.