Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn:
The Incredulity of Thomas
["Christ Appearing to the Apostles"] (1656)

"Home seems less where the heart grows fonder than where one's pasts live …"

After Being Exiled, The Muse and I occasionally Reappeared on our old home turf. We came for various reasons, usually to see family, though I also once came alone to repaint the Villa. I'd slip down to the Main Street Starbucks at 5 AM to swipe some wi-fi and post my latest dispatch. I would inevitably get spotted by somebody from my former existence. I would get the opportunity to explain where I'd gone and what I was doing returning. Somebody would usually ask if we'd come back, but I'd have to admit we hadn't. Not yet. We'd recount a few of our former misadventures before disappearing into the ether again. I'd run into old friends wherever I went, even visiting my mom in the old folks' home. Another inmate's kid or a staff member knew us under other circumstances and usually asked after us.

Our stories always seemed pretty lame to us. I mean, we'd been rudely Exiled into wilderness. Not much to report, even less to say. Still, it sometimes seemed that we'd taken on some caché by moving so far away. The Muse worked in Washington, DC, which might have sometimes seemed like a big deal to some people. We lived somehow nearer the center of the action, though none of our inquisitors could know how deeply we just wanted to be home again. A few times, we left with more relief than grief after we'd experienced some of the lesser parts of our revered local culture. The people were just as capable of thoughtlessness as we were, and our presences didn't always mesh when we found ourselves in the same room together again. We would breathe a deep sigh of relief as our plane took off, feeling as though we'd escaped some lesser fate. In those moments, we felt damned fortunate to have been Exiled.

Interestingly, since we returned nearly three years ago, hardly a week passes without someone else noticing my return. They remember my absence, and my presence might not have been so noticeable since returning. The local paper has gotten into the habit of rejecting my once-frequent contributions to their Letters To The Editor column. My work keeps me off the streets, and until the end of the pandemic, I didn't go out much, and when I did, I successfully hid my face from view. Further, the people available to recognize me have changed in the decade and a half since we left. Between the changes to my appearance time has exacted, and the ones time had wrecked to theirs, it’s a genuine wonder either recognize themselves, let alone each other.

The welcomes tend to be warm, warmer than I might have expected had we just bumped into each other in the olden days. I never maintained that many intimates but long-lost acquaintances seem to receive a warmer than anticipated greeting. My old dry cleaner has rediscovered my Reappearing several times since we returned, and each time, it seems like it’s deja vu for him all over again. He clearly doesn't remember my earlier manifestations or accompanying explanations. I warmly welcome even these more forgetful recognitions. I understand the part I'm supposed to play in these interactions. I'm being discovered, and I owe my Magellan my heartfelt appreciation for recognizing me from Adam. I understand that it takes something to take the chance that they might be mistaken when calling out my presence, and if I'm honest with myself, it usually feels terrific to be recognized. I'm no visiting celebrity, of this I'm certain, but even a spare ounce of recognition acknowledges my presence. That's an act of love, if anything ever is.

I remember times when I revisited scenes of my earlier crimes. When I returned to Takoma Park a couple of years after we'd cleared out for Colorado. My old neighbor volunteered to fetch me from the Metro Station. He showed up in his little red Prius, though the front end was beat to shit. He'd had an accident, one in a series that would soon lead to his wife taking his car keys away. He reported that they would soon sell their home and move into a retirement community. We visited, drank a couple of old-time beers, and I left, insisting I wanted to walk back to The Metro through that once-familiar neighborhood. As isolating as that stroll felt, I might have never before passed through there. It seemed as though I was back at the beginning of our Exile, searching for somewhere to live through the upcoming years rather than revisiting the place we'd landed. Coming back without Reappearing on anyone's radar left me feeling insignificant, as if I had failed to exist while living there.

Home seems less where the heart grows fonder than where one's pasts live, though it doesn't always notice when one of its futures visit.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz