It's funny to go back there. To remember what they said. To recall my awkward stages. To see those faces. To stand there feeling mostly lost, and think, "This isn't me at all."
Except it is exactly me because it made me.
Maybe we are nearly strangers to each other now, and maybe the pieces don't fit together the same; but there is a time that still lives in my heart and in the way I move my hands. There it is when the car picks up speed and we hit that little country bridge on that little country road and the wind flaps my hair while I look out over the inch-high corn. I find it in the way I dance. It is the way I see the world, in a sense.
I used GPS to navigate from the north side down 65 and to the Greenwood exit. I turned left on Emerson and I followed that weird bridge around to where my high school was. Except it's not there any more. I vaguely recognized that bizarre strip mall and the gross pizza place. Then I didn't recognize a thing. I don't think it recognized me either.
So I did the logical thing: I turned off my maps and I just went. I found that place where you are imprinted and traced the paths until I got to where I was going.
I'm still getting where I'm going. Indiana, you are where I started.