You can’t go home again.

I left my home in 2001, never to return. Or, so I thought.

There had been some problems, so I reasoned that a new start in a new state was the way to go. No obligations. No vicissitudes.

But, as time went by and I settled in to my new life, I often looked back and envisioned seeing the old place again. In my mind’s eye, I could see the rolling hills of Quinton Oaks. I could smell the fuel from the dirt bikes blazing lines of fury in the fields next to Four Winds. I could hear the voices of my compatriots exhorting me to soften my stance, to lengthen my reach, to slow my tempo.

But, that is why I left. I could no longer live up to my own expectations. I had fallen below my perceived Maginot line. Just as the French had been overrun, I too had succumbed to my inability to respond to pressure from an indomitable foe and subsequently wilted under the pressure.

Now, I thought that I might be able to come back and conquer those old demons that had battered me for so long.

My most vivid recollection was of the last hill before hitting Four Mile Fork. There was a sharp move up and around and then as I passed the crest of the hill, the city came in to sight. Not the old city, but the outer tentacles which slithered out from the nucleus.

After those many years had passed, I had conjured up visions of a city reborn and recast. But what I saw was a city imploding on itself from the decay of the essential atoms which made up this once great metropolis.

I had a simple mission in mind. I wanted to see my old house, some of my old haunts, and a few of my friends. But, when I arrived, my mission suddenly changed. I felt like a foreigner in a foreign land. The scenes were familiar but most of the underlying pixels had decayed.

I sensed that I had waited too long to return. I felt a reluctance to reopen doors which had been firmly shut and bolted. But, I trudged on, first fulfilling a meeting with one of my mentors. He had not changed but for a softening of his speech pattern, and a hint of resignation in his voice. He was still strong and confident, but was now slowly creeping toward the beckoning light.

I had only one question for him. How had he walked away from the game that we both loved? He said that physical atrophy in his shoulders had relegated him to the sidelines. Unlike me, he felt no remorse about giving up the game. His attitude seemed to be one of resignation to the inevitable.

I made one more stop to my good friend who was still playing the game. He seemed as vibrant as the day I left. He said that his game had not declined. In fact, like Winn Dixie, it was getting better all the time. His attitude was one of looking to the future with the reckoning of steady and perhaps improved performance. I was shocked by his vision of the future. Not because it seemed unattainable, but because he had the guts and fortitude to think in those terms.

As I crossed back over the crest of the hill, away from Four Mile Fork, I thought briefly about my two old friends. One seemed to have accepted his fate which was meandering slowly to the gulf, while the other was thinking only of the next world to conquer. Both views seemed to be skewed somewhat, but both also had their merits.

So, I thought, where do I fit in that spectrum whose outer edges are defined by my two old friends? It would be easy to say that I’m in the middle. But, in truth, even though I, in the abstract, long to continue to kill the next dragon, I have succumbed to my fate.

I didn’t find any answers on my trip home. I only found questions and doubt. As the reds and the oranges of the oak and maple gave way to the green of the palmetto, I felt some peace in the fact that I now know my trail ahead. My only goal is to travel with dignity. Hopefully, I’ve dropped the remorse and anger to the side of the road.

I did go home again. I didn’t find the answers I was seeking but I did see a path ahead.