You Can Never Go Home

I have discovered that abundant truth in the past, and it continues to hold true this week. As my plane descended into the Salt Lake Valley yesterday, I took in the landscape around me and felt the pangs in my heart. When the plane taxied to the gate, the pangs intensified, and they struck again when I saw my parents waiting for me at the end of the terminal. The pangs didn't overflow, however, until we pulled into Cache Valley. We couldn't drive past a single landmark, a single sign, without conjuring up some memory. I could see, feel, taste Ammon everywhere around me. I knew it would be difficult coming back here, and have been approaching this trip with a mixture of apprehension, dread, and joy. Yesterday all those fears were realized and when we pulled into the valley and drove past the sights most familiar to me, I cried silent tears in the backseat. After having lunch at one of my favorite local eateries and a quick visit to my grandmother, we finally made it back to my parents house. There, the sadness and grief overwhelmed me again, and I was forced to find a quiet spot to mourn. I miss Ammon. I always miss Ammon, but it is here, in the place and in the town that we once called home, that I miss him most acutely right now. I have grown used to missing him at home. I have grown used to sleeping in our bed by myself, to missing his comforting presence at the dinner table or next to me in the vehicle. I wasn't prepared to miss him so much here. I look forward to the completion of my trip, and my return home to the comfort of the familiar. I know this trip is a necessary evil, but it's a painful one nonetheless.