Yes, Franky, you can go home again. You
just can't get there from here. Home has to come to you, and that can happen. You just have to be willing to see it when it arrives.
Home could come crashing in through the front door, spilling beer down your shirtfront and hollering in your ear. That is when you finally understand that you have to be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it. 'It' being those old friends you invited up to River City for the weekend and who embarrassed you in front of your shiny, new friends. The disconcerting thing about that lovely scenario is that all your new friends suddenly realize that you and the stuttering, gin-soaked fools you used to hang out with used to have a lot in common; which immediately begs the question: Are you still that person?
Home could come slinking into your head and heart. This would be a non-gender specific slink, by the way. The guttering wick in that stub of candle that used to be the flame lighting your world could blaze anew. In a moment of lonely, unpartnered depression you could flee to some fondly remembered arms and hope for the magic to return.
You'd be wrong though, mostly and usually. Those arms are holding somebody else. Or, somebody else's baby. Who knows, really, but they for sure aren't going be holding your empty heart again. You blew it when you left.
Home could be the arrival of the 'rents to your room on a Saturday morning as you and your current slinker are sleeping peacefully on a bed full of empty Natty Ice cans and boxer shorts. Then you'd know you were back home again for sure. Nothing like a parental shock going off the Richter scale to really take you back. Relax. They can't ground you. Not anymore. They can ground your Visa card though. That is worse. By far.
Home could rear its ugly head when your goofy uncle and his eight scruffy kids decide to stop by on their way to Kansas to see the World's Largest Ball of Barbed Wire. There is never room in front of your house for their 20-year-old, rusted out, 30 foot Winnebago. Having a Chevy Chase movie played out in your front yard, complete with a Randy Quaid character scratching himself as he has a morning beer is sure to take you back. Ludicrous example, you say? Come on. You know some of you have relatives like that. Admit it. Home is those people. And, you've seen that ball of wire, too. And, the World's Largest Holstein Cow. It's okay. We all have to come from somewhere.
So, you can go home again. Sometimes in awful ways that try your patience and embarrass you, but if you're ready and your eyes are peeled you can be right back there in Ludlow, or Detroit or Los Angeles.
Somebody will call you and catch you unaware and completely occupied with your life. Bang. Home will come unbidden, pushed by a rolling wave of warm and fuzzy memories. You'll remember those people who always talked to you even when you abused the schmuck privilege -- you know what that is, everybody gets to be a schmuck, but you can't abuse the privilege. Yes, you'll remember those people who loved you even when you actually poisoned the air in a three-foot circle around yourself. Even then, they wanted to be around you. Those people are what make wherever it was, home.
What do you do when this gooey and unexpected event happens? You accept it. That's right, Franky. You understand it. It is your portion of that slippery idea called grace. Grace is by definition unexpected and unearned. It comes to those who are willing to let it in and take it for what it is; a quiet night, the Milky Way, lightning flashing against the bellies of clouds and the low, sweet voice of someone you haven't seen for 10 years, easing their way back into your heart.
