The words “You can’t go home again,” were made ,memorable by Thomas Wolfe. While I don’t dispute their validity, I would prefer to say, “You shouldn’t go home again.”
Because that’s what I did this week, and it was painful, surprisingly so.
My trip back into yesterday was initiated by a beautiful Christmas card from the eldest of the Fabulous Four. It depicted a red front door on a White House decorated with a lovely wreath.
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The handwritten message read, “The house was white; the door was black. Every year the wreath was beautiful.”
And suddenly I was back there. The memories of other years, other holidays flooded my mind, and I thought I have to look at the pictures.
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When I left NY I kept the pictures of the home we had shared for 57 years on my iPad. The realtor had scrupulously recorded every nook and cranny of my home while looking for a potential buyer, and her plan succeeded. However, I had not opened the file of pictures since the day I locked the black door for the final time.
When I did yesterday, I was sorry. Not because I had left, nor because I no longer have the luxury of a kitchen filled with copper pots or a room just for my computer, or an extra bathroom. No, I regretted looking back in time because the pain of yesterday immediately resurrected. I felt the loss of the laughter that had saturated the white Cape Cod for so many years.. I immediately remembered the emptiness that seemed to flood the house on the corner during the eight years I remained there alone
Instead of remembering the smell of a turkey roasting or the chaos when preparing for our annual Christmas party, I relived the sorrow of all the goodbyes.
And I realized the wisdom of the author who coined the memorable phrase, “You can’t go home again.” Well said, Sir.
