Thoughts On Going Home Again
There’s a chance that while you’re reading this, I’m being looked at carefully by a handful of people. Not doctors, mind you, as I’m seemingly in good health (not thrilled about adding “seemingly” to the equation, but what do I know?... I’m not a doctor). Nah, just non-medical people, laypersons, a tad younger but pretty close in age, all told. And it’s nothing blatant, mostly sidelong glances when they think I’m not looking, oblivious to the fact that my peripheral vision is, like, off the charts. Always has been, ever since I can remember. And, I must say, it’s a great superpower to have as long as you keep it to yourself. Kind of ironic, too, having the ability to witness others thinking they’re being stealthy as they check you out, totally unaware that I’m returning the favor in spades. So, anyway, as I was saying, at this moment I may be getting scrutinized.
The reasons for the furtive actions of the folks I’m talking about are twofold: first, they’re searching for signs of aging, a wrinkle here, a couple more gray hairs there and, of course, whether or not I’ve lost any said hair since last we were together (I haven’t, thank you). And, secondly, they’re scoping out that other thing, that other possible loss: a step. You know, evidence that my mental acuity is on the decline. That maybe I’m not as sharp as I used to be. That my best days are behind me. They’re taking in everything I’m saying. Or not saying. As in, if I mislabel or forget a name or a place, or worse, that maddening pregnant pause in the midst of a story due to a “senior moment”, that euphemistic phrase designed to play down the horror of the realization that your synapses aren’t just misfiring; hell, half of ‘em aren’t firing at all!... And there you have it; that’s the stuff they’re lookin’ for.
So, yeah, I’m back home visiting with family. And, for the record, I’m the eldest of seven children, residing in SoCal, some 3,000 miles away from my place of origin in western Massachusetts, the Bay State, where I am at this moment. And, for the most part, I do make the effort to revisit my brothers and sisters every couple of years, give or take, to get the skinny, in person, on who’s up to what and, truth be told, to check for a new wrinkle or a few gray hairs, a couple pounds gained, or possibly even a little male pattern baldness, knowing full well their peripheral vision isn’t nearly as acute as mine, not close to approaching a superpower (unless they’re keeping it to themselves… damn!). And so, I quietly wait for this mimicry of boxing’s first round--where the opponents feel each other out before getting down to business for the rest of the bout--to play out and then subside. I realize that, being the oldest, I’m kind of the canary in the coal mine, just a tip-off to the others as to what to expect as they near the age I am now. I abide willingly. What choice do I have?
Anyway, this covert ritual, this clandestine practice, inevitably got me to thinking about the phrase, “You can’t go home again”, highlighting the fact that once you’ve left, you can never fully recapture its essence, as places, people, and moments have changed for good. A true statement if ever there was one. But what about the people who stayed, ya know, like my brothers and sisters? I mean, sure, life remains fluid; things are constantly shifting, but the essence of their environment, it really has remained the same. So, when they see me, after a rather substantial absence, they’re kind of experiencing the opposite effect. Along with trying to rationalize the old me with the new me, they’re trying to welcome me back into the fold, attempting to bring me home again. At least, that’s the rosy picture I try to paint for myself. Hell, maybe they are just looking for a paunch and a receding hairline… Yeah, that’s probably it.
Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention one other element that comes into play during this whole family vetting process. One that causes me more than just a tinge of guilt: my constant urge to mess with their heads. I can’t help it; it’d be so easy. And so much fun. And really funny. Something as simple as repeating a story I’d related just five minutes earlier. Or maybe, calling one of my brothers by the wrong name. Just a little mischievousness as a lark. A bit of high jinks to get the party started. An impish ploy designed to get their undivided attention… Ahh, but deep down I know it wouldn’t be right. Clearly, it’d be taking a step too far. Especially since Alzheimer’s was prevalent on my mother’s side of the family. But then again, Mom always did have a fantastic sense of humor.
(Note: There’ll be no publication on 10/16 as I’m on vacation).