When I am going home after being away for a while, I start wondering whether it will be very different, or whether I am very different. I compare there versus here: how the air will feel to breathe, the directions and colors of the sun, the faces and fashions and voices of the people. I start to question whether the character of the place has deviated from what I remember, or whether my memories have forked from the actuality of the place, or both.
Then, when I finally do return, the reality rushes into those memories and pours into all the gaps where I had the questions. The perceived wins out over the imagined and the remembered. I find I don’t have questions anymore, and I barely remember what they were. But I still have the uneasy, nagging restlessness. There was something I was supposed to do, or somewhere I was supposed to go, but I can’t remember what or where that was.

