The last time I was there, it was overwhelming. With every turn, I saw a fresh, familiar shock of white hair and thought “that could be him. Maybe all the shit became too much and he faked his long, slow, painful death to reclaim his life.”

Knowing he didn’t, of course. I’m mental, but I’m not completely mad.

Still. There he was: everywhere. My trip was one of heritage seeking. Of standing where he stood, of taking deep gasping breaths outside the building where he took his first. Standing in front of the building where he slid down the banister and broke the glass door at the end of his short, thrill riddled trip. Standing at his parents grave, where the etched letters in his fathers name disappearing, while his mothers were never bothered with.

This time, less so. They say you only have one first time, just as they say you can never go home…and that you never stop missing the ones you’ve loved and lost.

I can corroborate all of the above with one single trip and attempt to find him again.