Coming back to New England. The past is a potent, dangerous thing. I can't stop thinking that, can't stop those words running around in my mind. As I drive my car down streets that hold memories of me from 25 years ago, as I laugh with my family in the kind of joyous abandon I'm capable of with very few others, as I soak in the kind of Fall beauty that made my heart stutter and my eyes water when I was 10... There is so much that is appealing about this past. So much beauty that was left behind, and is just waiting to be discovered again. And so much that is no longer me. I'm drawn to be a version of myself that I discarded as unhealthy long ago. Family and home, makes me feel like I didn't actually throw away that version of me. I just hung her up like a coat I can shrug off and on as needed. My brain is screaming at me this trip. This trip of grieving my dead sister, of comforting my shattered, resilient family. Parts of me are reveling in nostalgia, are soak...
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