Since I last wrote, I have been occupying a space inside the final paragraphs of The Great Gatsby. Borne back ceaselessly, unmoored from my usual berth, I was sent spinning across the archipelago of my family’s history. We all have such a chain of islands in our wake, some scrubby, deserted, others lush and laden. They represent who we were and where we may never set foot again. The past is geographic. You can map its contours within your memory, chart your route via a wafted scent or a pop song on the radio. Artifacts of touch, sound, vision, emotion have the power to transport us, like Nick Carraway, for “a transitory enchanted moment”, but, other than a swift sensory flash, there’s no way back. And now 2023 is officially a yesteryear, another fast receding shore.
Welcome home. Your grandmother's message is perfect for this day in L.A.
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