Rt 27

I’m working in my hometown. The place I grew up. The place that, in some ways, I’ve never fully left – even though I don’t live here anymore. I still read the local paper every week, scanning the police blotter and obituaries for familiar names and catching up on the drama in the letters to the editor. My parents live here. I still measure time and distance by how far a place is from town. Boston? About three hours. Brunswick? Forty-five minutes.

Driving down the Rt 27 peninsula this morning, the sun coming out after some needed rain, misty sunlight on the wet trees, passing places and faces I’ve known my whole life, I feel like a kid again. And not in a particularly good way. There are more happy memories here than I can count. But it’s not a warm and fuzzy nostalgia I’m feeling this morning. It feels like I’m crawling back into a cracked cocoon.

It feels like I haven’t grown up. Like I’m not an adult. It feels like I have to raise my hand to ask permission to speak. Like I’m waiting for a teacher or a coach to tell me what to do next. 

I don’t feel this way anywhere else. Thankfully, I don’t feel it here very often.