I remember this trip from so many times before: Struggling to carry all the bags into Port Authority, trying to find the right gate, negotiating with the bus driver over whether I could buy a ticket onboard. The quiet evening ride through the Lincoln Tunnel and the breathtaking views of the city from the helix. The familiar route down the highways. When the driver gets close to your stop, you need to gather your things and walk up to the front of the bus so he remembers that he's making a stop. He turns on the lights (the bus is otherwise dark), calls out the name of the stop, and lets you off at the side of the highway. It's close to the exit to the residential neighborhood. From there, it's a short walk down a few long, winding suburban blocks. I've done this trip at least a hundred times before over the course of years - mostly commuting - but over the past five years, largely as part of the ritual of visit my childhood home.
This time, I mostly noticed the calm. The highways that form the basis of transportation for the northern portion of this state (and which grind to a halt with holiday shopping traffic) are largely empty after midnight. Even on the main roads, cars are rare. Mostly, it's dark and quiet. Growing up, my parents always acted as though the fact that you could hear the highway made the neighborhood undesirable. In reality, you can only hear the highway because everything else is so silent - it's the same reason why I can hear the train whistle from three miles away as I type.
The walk is always interesting emotionally. When I was in college, the contrast between school and home always felt antagonistic. It was like I had to be careful - as though I didn't belong - but I was also at risk of getting sucked back. Now, four years in DC, the relationship is different. This was my home. Was, not is. Not in any way. On the verge of potentially owning my own home hours away, this place has no draw left on me beyond memories. This was the intersection where I would say goodbye to my friend after the walks we took to pass the time over breaks from college. This was the house where one of my first crushes, a blond boy with a lighting bolt earring, lived when I was in kindergarten. This is the hill where I would go sledding and the tennis court where I half-heartedly tried to learn the summer after senior year. It's all very nice and peaceful. And it isn't tied to me anymore. I haven't been back here in nine months - next time could be a year from now. Maybe growing up isn't about breaking ties with your past, but just losing any emotional ties to the point that the emotional register of this walk weighs less on my mind than the chill of winter on my neck and a pang of regret for losing my nice scarf over the course of the evening....
