He had to accept he would never find his way home again. It wasn't that he couldn't find the physical place. He had done that, driven through the old neighborhood, parked in front of his old house, even gotten out of the car and walked into the backyard where the oak tree still stood.
But the memories that had been here were gone. He had packed them up and taken them with him.
When he got to the new place he had forgotten there was more to unpack than boxes. He had been so busy building a new life he had erased the old. By the time he saw the coldness in his new life it was too late. The old life was gone.
He had returned to this place where he had once lived in the hopes of finding meaning. The visit had stirred no emotion. Had his childhood been so unremarkable - so easily lost? He really couldn't remember
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