You can go home again...

Thomas Wolfe wrote a novel called 'You Can't Go Home Again' in which the main character writes a novel based on his home town, family and friends.  When they read the book they are enraged at their portrayal and don't welcome George, the protaganist, back home with open arms.  Hence the title, but the title also refers to different ideas about our pasts and memories and the desire to go nostalgically back to those years and those times when we viewed our lives through rose-coloured glasses and childhood was idyllic.

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."

This quote ffrom the Wolfe book resonates strongly with me today.  I am back from the US.  I accomplished exactly the things I wanted and saw all the family members on my list. I enjoyed the warmth and closeness with my children and with my brother and sister-in-law.  I felt loved and cared for, despite my feeling somewhat disconnected at times.  And yet, I realised with quite some sadness, that I can never recapture those early days of innocence and wonder that I had as a child.  I bought all my old childhood sweets, ate foods that I associate with being a street kid in the Bronx and even spent a lot of time laughing with my brother about the oddness of our Eastern European upbringing in the North Bronx.  We both agreed that the 1950's that other American kids experienced were not the same for us in our house.

This week I kept looking at my father and trying to see beyond his frailty and dementia.  I tried to peel away the layers of blindness, disease and madness in order to conjure up my 'Pop' coming home from work every evening with the newspaper under his arm and my brother and I falling over each other to get to the newspaper first.  My dad would take off his coat and as often as not, would still have his leather tailor's apron on. 'Oy', he would say, 'I forgot again'.  There were always odd bits of thread and cloth caught up in his clothing and sometimes he even brought some of the cloth home so we could see what he was planning to make for us.We all sat down for a rushed dinner that just about lasted as long as it took to quickly swallow whatever my mum cooked.  Then my dad usually dozed on the couch.

As my brother and I shared this memory I could feel a kind of sweetness mixed with sadness for both of us.  We can never go back to those days, but we are both incredibly grateful for having had them and for still being able to share the memory of them.

I said goodbye to my father yesterday.  I'm not sure if I will 'go home again' and find him there.  Even the shadow of himself as he is now is fading and kissing his round, bald head and putting my cheek to his lips as he kissed me back with the kind of automatic response babies have, even that is 'home' in some way. I am so sad and also so accepting that this is the way it is.  Time and memory that's all I have now with him.

I am so pleased to be back in wet, grey England.  Familiarity does not breed contempt. In my case it breeds love, and happiness and warmth.  I want to see Ralph.  He'll be home any minute and we'll hug and laugh and soon enough we'll start bickering.  Wonderful.  Right now I am happy I can come home again.