Memorial Days

They say you can never go home again. They may be right.

“What have you been up to?” they ask.

“Same old, same old,” I say.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Still, I found myself mute to the din of inquiry. Somehow, the weight of the me that they know, the crush of memories that they hold, was too much to counter. And so I was silent.

Highlight: Running in Valley Forge Park
Lowlight: Standing in the basement

Highlight: “You look good.”
Lowlight: “You’ve lost a significant amount of hair.”

Highlight: Three new sport coats
Lowlight: The same black suit

Highlight: Wawa hoagie
Lowlight: Rubber chicken

Highlight: Springtime
Lowlight: Allergies

Highlight: The rain
Lowlight: The rain

Highlight: Dancing
Lowlight: Driving

Highlight: Going home
Lowlight: Being home

There are ghosts on every corner of my hometown. I see them poking from behind trees, cabins, walls and dumpsters. I recognize them all, and they recognize me. “My tooth is in the dirt over there,” I think. “My name in carved in that beam over there. I had sex in the bushes over there.”

They let me pass unscathed, but they whisper in my ear, “You don’t fool us. We knew you when all the saints had gone to sleep.”