Here’s what I love about coming home:
This past night, I drove up from PA to my hometown in NJ. I made it a point to take the familiar NJ Turnpike, which I used to travel from my hometown to both my grandparents’ places down in South Jersey. Obviously, every time I to up or down I-95, I get nostalgic. On the northbound way home, I go up NJ-17 through Paramus, and just feel even more nostalgia. I remind myself that I haven’t actually lived at home for nigh on eleven years, and while it all still feels the same, I know its changed slightly.
Then I get to my hometown. I pull of of Rt. 17, and head West. I lower my window, and smell the crisp, cold air, and a hint of someone’s oak fireplace. I drive a little deeper down Main Street, and I imagine I’m walking my sweetheart down the main drag at night with the chill and the oak in the air. . .
And I turn right at one light, pass Town Hall and the police station, and make my way home. I stop in my truck, and before I walk up to the door, I look around the neighborhood: I wonder where the girls from across the street are. I wonder where Steve from down the block is. I wonder how my buddy’s father from up the street is fareing, after his diagnosis. . .
. . . man, even though it’s just for one night, it’s good to be home.
Tripler
I wish we all had the fortune of making it back to our hometown.