When I come home my heart hurts. I can't help it, intention has no effect. All I can see are the trees that have grown and been cut down, views blocked and opened, the different ways I myself occupy space - taller, wider. My first time back I turned my bed 90 degrees because I couldn't stand the sensation of being superimposed on my past selves. I leave the light on at night because in the darkness it's too easy to slide backwards through time.
Part loneliness for the old me, part hatred of my past self, part exaltation of her, I never know how to explain what I feel when I come home. The pain of something that no longer fits, treading on a step that's no longer there. But also the shock of the familiar, the wheels in the ruts, the needle in the groove. What I felt still fits like a glove.