Slow Fade

It seems strange how slowly childhood dies.  Slowly it fades away.  Deaths and changes all around.  It all fades away like the color of a rug bleached in the sun over a long period of time.

Nana is no longer "Nana."  She's still a person, a human being that matters, important, but my Nana too has faded away.  And I'm not quite sure when it happened, when the last little bit left.  I wasn't expecting it to happen so soon.  Her memory is dying (deteriorating if you'd prefer a word less morbid), yes, but she still remembers who people are, still remembers where she lives and how to get home.  But she -- who she was -- is gone from me.

And all I want to do is curl up in Abba's lap and have a good cry about it.  I want to go to Nana and Grandpa's old house in Roanoke and sit in a chair, but the house isn't the same anymore.  Or go to Sue's house and curl up in a bed and have a good long nap, but it isn't "mine" anymore.

Gone.  All gone.  Lost.  

I cling desperately to every last memory and sensation, but it is gone.  And can be no more.

I've thought often lately of Neil Diamond's song "I Am I Said."  One line goes: "L.A.'s fine but it ain't home/ New York's home, but it ain't mine no more."  Making that line my own, I could say, San Diego's fine, but it ain't home; Virginia's home, but it ain't mine no more.

Like the Duplicitous Forest, my childhood screams but is not heard -- waiting for the Messengers to come and tell the story true, I suppose.  

I really must finish that story (cr "Heads or Tails" posts).