Home Isn’t Always Home

 I grew up in Bethesda, Maryland. Go to any suburb and you’ll pretty much have had the experience. It’s long puzzled me that I have no nostalgia for it. When I went back, recently, for a high school reunion, I rented a car and drove up my old block. I was struck by how small the “big” hill was—I’d always thought the slope was so steep. It wasn’t. I guess I was remembering with five-year-old legs. And I was struck, once again, by how little I felt looking at the place I’d called home for about 27 years. Nada. A day or so later, before I got rid of the car, I tried again. Parked for a minute. Remembered some of the neighbors, ruminated over some memories. Important things happened to me during those years, in that house, on that block. And yet…I felt nothing. I don’t have an answer. Just sharing the puzzle of how sometimes the place we’re supposed to all home doesn’t feel like home.