Over Christmas break, my wife and I flew back to see my parents in Fargo over the holidays. It's always good to see my family---ever since I left the nest for college, I've lived away from home and winter break is one of the few times where I can be with my family for an extended period of time. Still, visiting home always gives me a slightly uncanny feeling, almost like walking through a dream. Things aren't as they once seemed. It's an intense feeling of deju vu. Things feel familiar but are slightly off in some way, as if my memories are colored by filters.
While my parents still lives in Fargo, they no longer live in the house that I call home. They moved to a new house shortly after I moved away. Now when I visit them, I stay in a new bed in a new room in a new house that feels like a stranger. It's a nice house, almost certainly nicer than their old one in nearly every way, but I just don't have a connection with it. It's just another place to rest my head. My things are still packed away in boxes hidden in the basement gathering dust and cobwebs. I've driven by our old house, the home I grew up in, and the new owners have given it a face lift. They've put up new siding, taken down the backyard fence, and changed the landscaping. While the bones are still there, I can hardly recognize her. I guess you can never really go home again.
Beyond that, a significant portion of my childhood was spent at my parents' workplace. We were a working family. My parents have been steadfast in the restaurant business and I grew up kitchen in the back. As I grew older, I spent time washing dishes and busing tables. However, my parents have moved restaurant locations several times as new opportunities presented themselves. They are currently located in the recently renovated food court in the West Acres mall, a location they moved in after I moved out. After years spent growing up in those other restaurant locations, this new one doesn't speak to me. While the food remains the same, the old faces are gone and I no longer know it or the workers keep it running.
But at least my parents are still there. None of my childhood friends, or at least childhood friends that I've kept in touch with, remain there. Like me, they have all moved on. As a result, visiting home sometimes feels like visiting a ghost town, particularly as my parents are busy with work. Even my old high school has been completely renovated. In this case, not only is the facade new, even the bones are different. Inside, the places where my friends and I used to hang out have disappeared, like they never existed, replaced by new lockers, classrooms, teachers, and students.
Even the public library, one of my favorite places, is completely different.
Fargo is in the midst of its awkward, teenage years. It's been growing up since I grew up. When I was small, the town was small enough that you knew everything about it. You could get anywhere in no time and as kids, we had free rein roaming around the neighborhood. But Fargo has grown up and out---like a gangly teenager, it's had its growth spurt but doesn't quite know what to do with itself. A typical suburb with an expanding waistline, it feels like the same recognizable businesses and homes repeat themselves over and over. Every part of the city feels familiar but slightly off, like it's been stretched out. Unlike a typical suburb, there's no big city to escape to.
Fargo still feels small enough that you feel like you should know everyone but just large enough that you don't. It's filled with familiar things that are unfamiliar. It's a home that's not a home.
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