Thomas Wolfe said it best.

From a journal entry dated 5/6/2010, written on a street corner in London.

As I passed the time in Grapevine, waiting for the day of our delayed departure [for Europe], I thought often of the impending conclusion of my life's time on Kelsey Ct. Mom and Dad bought a house on 27 acres in Mineola, and were to move in mid-May. Thus, when I left the house for the airport, I'd give my final farewell to the home I'd grown up in and which I would never see again.

These thoughts manifested in nights of nostalgic melancholy, and nighttime wanderings through the quiet dark streets of my youth. As the time drew nearer, it became clear that my departure would affect me emotionally more than I'd suspected it would. Some nights I sat alone and lost myself in memory and lamplight, holding back calm sad tears. Ryan and I played a lot of basketball in the driveway, drinking beer and shooting hoops endlessly, late into the warming nights. The peace, simplicity and familiarity of home bore into me during those last couple of weeks, and I found myself wishing that I wouldn't have to say goodbye. In spite of the things that frustrate me about Grapevine, and that make me not want to be there for very long at a time, I love it as my home and value every memory it's given me. A flood of disjointed recollections overcame me, a mosaic of hazy imagery that flashed like filmstrip before my closed eyes.

My sacred innocence in childhood, running around the neighborhood beneath the tall, swaying oaks with the golden sunlight piercing through, casting puddles of brilliance on the grass. The weird confusion and sadness of my adolescence, awkwardly aging alongside my brother and under the care of my parents. Bewilderment. Hitting baseballs in the backyard, the riotous dramas of the neighborhood friends/enemies as we acted as children on the street. Swimming in the neighbor's pool, and then in a pool of our own. Riding our bikes off ramps of plywood and 2x4s. Digging holes as deep as we could, for no reason, angering our fathers for messing up their lawns, something we couldn't understand. Entering high school, sneaking out late at night, terrorizing the community with angst and antics, illicit behavior secretly enjoyed in my closet late at night, losing my virginity in the barn, having parties in the yard and all my friends trying to get mom and dad to stay up late with us. An endless barrage of imagery resides in my memory and it was all bursting forth. To think that I'd really be saying goodbye to my home was unbelievable. I knew the reality but somehow could not accept its tangibility. The loss of home, I think, cannot be understood until it is truly gone.

The day to leave arrived, and I was filled with anxiety and solemnity. I went about my final tasks sternly. Every moment was charged with sorrow and significance. I'd never loved my family more than on that day, though all I could do was remain stoic to keep from losing my tenuous composure. I was preparing to leave the house, and walked into the darkened hallway and into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I realized at once that I would trulyll never walk into that bathroom again. The moment had come when every instant in my home was immediate, present, lasting, always to be remembered as the final taste and smell and breath of home. Forever. I wept softly as I brushed my teeth.

Finally the moment had come, and mom and dad follwed me into the garage as I took a final glance over my shoulder and closed the door. I was fighting against sobs, and knew I couldn't hold them back. But I tried. I saw that I hadn't written address information on my box of panniers. I grabbed a marker and stooped, trying not to look into my mother's crying eyes. We were sharing our thoughts. I put my marker to the box:

Justin Spike
4004 Kelsey Ct.
Grapevine, TX 76051
USA

It took all of my strength to pen the last letter, a direction to a home that was no longer mine. I dropped the pen and heaved a great sob and shed the tears that had waited weeks to come forth. My love was profound and perfect in that moment, and all I could do to express my love was to cry for my home, prove my appreciation with my broken, pure and honest adoration. I knew that my sadness was real, not a product of any ego or jealousy or false sense of self but was truly and purely the most honest sadness I think I'd ever felt. Gone forever was something I loved, something ending to which I could never return for as long as I lived.

And we were in the car, driving to the airport, Mom, Dad and me. I walked into the terminal with Kyle and sealed my departure from home, punctuated with resounding finality the only stage of my life I've ever known, the one in which everything I love the most (home) is in Grapevine, Texas. The only tether which bound me has been cut, and I have no home. I am a foreigner loose in Europe, without an origin. Perhaps this is how it was meant to be.