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You Can’t Go Home Again

I had dinner at my parents’ house, last night.  I noticed that the silverware  no longer had the flowery pattern I remembered from my youth.  Instead, there were these new, lighter forks and spoons with no pattern at all.

This minor change from the last time I was here, a year ago, struck me surprisingly hard.  It really was the last vestige of childhood in my parents’ house.  All of the furniture, from couches to the dining table, had been replaced.  The kitchen is remodeled.  I wasn’t even sleeping on the single bed with the dinosaur sheets (much as my wife would have liked that).

I think a certain time period, maybe when you’re nine or ten, gets stuck in your head, and that’s what you think of as your home.

The fact is, your parents change just as much as you do.  More so, actually, since they can afford to upgrade their Ikea furniture.

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