This is the second time I am home after spending a year living elsewhere.

I mean; this isn’t my childhood home. I moved in the fifth grade and again in the seventh. But within these walls are so many unusual memories. And when you are away for so long, you forget certain little details—like the feel of wet grass on bare feet, or the smell of Louisiana bayou summer air. Dust accumulates on old thoughts—faces become prettier, tragic elements are melded into some semblance of a Shakespearean tragedy, the most minuscule events given purpose, and meaning.

And so you smile, and read the marriage announcements section of the newspaper (and sometimes recognize faces, names), and tell yourself that all these musky old photographs will someday make some great revelation.

Nostalgia is a narcotic. And we all must come to the knowledge you begin to understand there is no real going back, to paraphrase an old buddy, Frodo Baggins. “There are some things that time cannot mend; some hurts go too deep.”

Home only seems to bring restless nights, old anxieties about lost loves and bittersweet dances.

One day I will start acting my age.