We're just about at the end of a visit to my family in southern Idaho. As always, the time has flashed by. My sense of myself - the young person who left the state in 1969, the person now bewilderingly graying with young adult children - keeps fluctuating back and forth. While I'm here, too, time seems to operate in different ways, speeding and slowing elastically.
The weather has been hot and clear. The mountains assert themselves as fixtures in my psyche, revealed again as bedrock. Leaving again (early tomorrow morning) seems unbelievable - how can it be that I've lived for decades and aged somewhere else, somewhere rather flat and moist?
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| The street where I spent my first six years. |
2 comments:
I always imagined Idaho as one giant potato field. Obviously I was wrong.
I never moved away from my birthplace. Even though I don't live in Houston anymore, I'm only an hour away. Put my kids are there, my grandkids and I wouldn't want to move away from them. Though my son and his wife are getting ready to move far away to Washington state.
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