I have found that a visit, however brief, to a place I once called home can bring on a whirlpool of homesickness and feelings of fragmentization when you leave it all over again. A few days among your family members living at distance, your old chums, your old haunts, those smells and tastes you remember, can immerse you back into the flow of the tide. All may be at once strange and familiar, changed and unchanged, giving a sense that time has marched on in some nooks and stood still in some crannies. “I belong here,” you not so much say to yourself, as unconsciously believe. Or at least, I did belong here. Once. I imagine I could belong here again without too much trouble. I could slip in line and pick up the rhythm of the steps.
I don't think I even notice how quickly and deeply my heart roots sink in, so that when the goodbyes come, my spirit reverberates against the pluck of it. And it seems what happens is that place has become even more intertwined with my being. So I return to my current home bringing more pieces of me. I am still there and I am here. I am in pieces and I am whole.