nos·​taul·​sea /nəˈstôlzēə/ (n) the synchronous sensation of queasiness and homesickness, of fondness and sorrow and disgust, that one feels upon returning to their place of origin/the location in which they spent their formative years

I was back in [name of town redacted] today.

The way it all comes back to you, just flying rudely in your face, lurking around every turn waiting to attack: the cringe and the horror, hitting like a punch to the gut and leaving you breathless. (Ugh, that really did happen.) I hate it here.

But also, lurking around the very same turns, the fond memories of innocent times. The sweetness and the sadness because this place is different now, and the place where I grew up will never exist again. A ghost town even in six lanes of traffic. The ache of grief for something irrevocably lost.

The way it all comes back to you, the smell of mom’s minivan on a hot day and those blue cushions in the kids’ section of the public library that’s since relocated. the obnoxious tune of that one radio jingle you haven’t heard in decades. Realizing how old you are and how relentless is the passage of time.

An abandoned overgrown lot where there used to be kmart – the smells of Little Caesars and hiding in the cheap clothing racks, small.

The way it all comes back to you.

How immediate the past is, always, after all. It’s just time, just days and nights are all that separate us from the past, isn’t it, which sounds obvious but doesn’t always feel that way – sometimes it feels like there’s a locked door or at least some kind of barrier, but it’s just days, nights, and days. You can go somewhere else, but you can’t escape it.

The inevitability of the place.

Like looking too hard in a mirror.

I love it here, honestly. It’s objectively the best place in the world. I can’t stomach it. The nostalgia. I never want to come here again. Get me as far away as possible. How could I ever want to live anywhere else?

When I die, tell them to bury me here: to return me to what I’m made of, dust to dust. It only makes sense. The inevitability. The nausea. It never could have been any other way.