I read a post by an acquaintance of mine that made me think about home because it was written about her home, and it’s hard not to get all nostalgic when you’re reading something written by someone who’s getting nostalgic. Nostalgia, like yawning, is contagious.
Which brings me to…
I rode my motorcycle back home a few weeks ago to watch my sister change her last name from Ms. S to Mrs. D. She also got a husband in the bargain, but mainly I think she was going for the name upgrade. If you’re curious, the wedding was beautiful, my sister glowing, and Mr. D had that dazed and confused expression that all men have on the day of their wedding.
The whole time I was home, I kept thinking about how strange it felt to be there. Not in a bad way, not at all. It felt like, for that weekend, there were two worlds co-existing. The here and now, the twenty-something single guy trying to stay afloat in the currents of life, trying to stave of cynicism, trying to be all that God wants him to be. But also the then, the past, the five year old son sure that the world would someday tremble at his passing (half sure it already did), the teenage cynic with emotions plated in steel, the college student sure of his intelligence but terrified of his inadequacies.
The disorienting duality wasn’t just confined to me. I looked at my sister as she wore that spotless white dress, and she kept shifting, kept flashing from the confident woman staring at the man she was marrying to the little girl in pigtails who used to hate it when I called her Genny. My little brother, now all muscle and sinew, with his wild hair and girlfriend ever at his side, was, in fits and spurts, the little kid always following me around, always wondering what I was up to. My parents kept losing the scars the years gave them, let decades roll off their shoulders and smiled, if only for moments, like they were in their thirties and we were all just children, just so much promise, so much potential.
For the span of that weekend, the world was something more than just a sum of events. It was layered, vibrant, alive. But the weekend ended like all weekends do. My sister drove off with her husband, and I let my motorcycle carry me hundreds of miles from home to home. But that duality, that twinning, still spins in my head. Why is it that it takes something dramatic, a marriage or a death, to remind us who we love? Not the names, but the people behind the names, the decades of shared experiences that have forged bonds stronger than steel and more fragile than blown glass. Why is it that it takes something like a marriage to really see the people around us?
Which brings me to…
I rode my motorcycle back home a few weeks ago to watch my sister change her last name from Ms. S to Mrs. D. She also got a husband in the bargain, but mainly I think she was going for the name upgrade. If you’re curious, the wedding was beautiful, my sister glowing, and Mr. D had that dazed and confused expression that all men have on the day of their wedding.
The whole time I was home, I kept thinking about how strange it felt to be there. Not in a bad way, not at all. It felt like, for that weekend, there were two worlds co-existing. The here and now, the twenty-something single guy trying to stay afloat in the currents of life, trying to stave of cynicism, trying to be all that God wants him to be. But also the then, the past, the five year old son sure that the world would someday tremble at his passing (half sure it already did), the teenage cynic with emotions plated in steel, the college student sure of his intelligence but terrified of his inadequacies.
The disorienting duality wasn’t just confined to me. I looked at my sister as she wore that spotless white dress, and she kept shifting, kept flashing from the confident woman staring at the man she was marrying to the little girl in pigtails who used to hate it when I called her Genny. My little brother, now all muscle and sinew, with his wild hair and girlfriend ever at his side, was, in fits and spurts, the little kid always following me around, always wondering what I was up to. My parents kept losing the scars the years gave them, let decades roll off their shoulders and smiled, if only for moments, like they were in their thirties and we were all just children, just so much promise, so much potential.
For the span of that weekend, the world was something more than just a sum of events. It was layered, vibrant, alive. But the weekend ended like all weekends do. My sister drove off with her husband, and I let my motorcycle carry me hundreds of miles from home to home. But that duality, that twinning, still spins in my head. Why is it that it takes something dramatic, a marriage or a death, to remind us who we love? Not the names, but the people behind the names, the decades of shared experiences that have forged bonds stronger than steel and more fragile than blown glass. Why is it that it takes something like a marriage to really see the people around us?
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