I returned to San Francisco with a bad case of The Fears. We had been in Cleveland in Ohio for nearly two weeks. While there, I survived on a steady diet of chemical sugars which probably accounted for this pervasive flu-like depression. That, or this is the meanest detox I’ve had since vikocandies.
Either way, I am back. Shivering with an anorexic self-loathing while swallowing the sharp edges of late night hate snacking. Home is a collage of praying mantis mandibles, pet food kibble, and an unvacuumable layer of awkwardness. The kind one feels entering a home haunted by continued breaking and entering.
Which is all a fancy way of saying, “It is good to be back.” I did not realize how much I enjoy being here, until I was driving around the satellite ring suburbs of Cleveland Clinic’s Hospital City.
Sure. There are things I miss. Like snowball fights with trees. Or maybe the fancy cleanliness of the Strongsville Rec Center. Or detailed conversations with my six year old niece about “Judy Moody.”
But. What is most familiar and safe and routine about Cleveland has changed. Slightly older, more gray and tired around receding hairlines. The shock of seeing all those subtle changes, like the growth spurt or the added wrinkles, which are invisible upon daily viewing.
Would I ever go back? Sure. Though, I think I would hire someone to plow my driveway. And maybe carry me around on a divan.