I’ve just got back from a trip to the homeland. It was short and very sweet, full of family celebration and dear friends, and I loved it. But I’m glad I’m back.
There must be a word for this feeling, because I’m sure it’s not just me. Here were the streets I’ve walked, the roads I’ve driven and the homes whose hearths have sustained me. I’ve lounged on these sofas, eaten at these tables, drunk from these glasses. That’s as it’s always been, but there’s something else now, a sense of displacement. Much as I love it, and as often as I return, there is no slot in that world for me to fit into. When, eventually, I move on from here, this will happen again.
I imagine that this is how ghosts feel, when they come to haunt us.