We just got home to Stone Ridge after spending two weeks in my hometown of Swampscott, Massachusetts. I used to joke that if you were in Swampscott, you were either from there or lost.
My mom lives across the street from the house where I grew up, and I usually visit a few times a year, but only for a day or two. This was the longest stretch I've stayed since I graduated from college in 2003.
Memories always surface when I'm there, but over those two weeks, they didn't relent.
Crocker Park where I picnicked with my father and stepmother on the Fourth of July. Blocksidge Field where we beat Marblehead on Thanksgiving Day to win the league championship. Stanley School playground where I took a haymaker square in the nose. The house on Woodbine Ave where I had my first kiss. Tedesco Golf Course where I got stoned for the first time. The pier at Fisherman's Beach where I sat alone the morning after my father relapsed.
I forgot how many memories were buried in me. While I was there, dozens of moments, people, and places I hadn't thought about in decades came into view. Each memory led to the next, and then the next.
Every now and then, in therapy or while reminiscing with my twin, memories would return, but they were isolated fragments, and I assumed I had already made peace with my childhood.
The longer I stayed, the more I realized my shorter trips only skimmed the surface. Over those two weeks, memories kept rising until I couldn't ignore them anymore. By the end of the trip, it was more than I wanted to hold.
Alongside my love and gratitude for this place sat resentment and grief. The same three square miles store my happiest childhood memories and some of my darkest ones. Holding all of it at once got heavy at times.
In the final days, a familiar urge crept in: to zone out, numb myself, and retreat to upstate New York. I wasn't falling apart, but it was a lot of material to be with day after day. I've done years of healing work around my childhood, and I had no idea how much was still in me.
On Wednesday night, I took one final spin around town, in awe of it all. Memories, feelings, moments I hadn't touched in decades had been sitting beneath the surface, waiting for me to stay long enough.
The next night, as we sped down the Mass Pike and crossed the Hudson River, I realized home isn't Swampscott anymore. Home is the life Eliza and I are building with our girls, and I'm bringing everything that surfaced with me.