It's been an emotional trip. We've traversed the Atlantic yet again. When I entered the UK the immigration agent looked at my passport and was able to detect that I'd had a permanent resident's visa previously. 'Are you sure you want me to do this?' she asked, her stamp poised over my passport. 'Once I stamp it, the resident's visa is invalidated.' What a question. What a choice. What could I do? It's done already. I'm a visitor now. A tourist. A transatlantic outcast.
We've had a tremendously lovely time, all told. The kids immediately bonded with their old friends, in Brighton and in Durham. We enjoyed numerous joyful reunions followed all too soon by tearful farewells. People in Brighton seemed surprised to see us. 'What are you doing here?' many asked. As if we'd leave and never return! But I guess that's what some do: they move on. I don't feel that way, but I realise that unlike Durham, where we lay claim to some form of rootedness (it's where we met, where we lived when we married, where we had our children), we might be seen merely to have passed through Sussex. Yet our six years there marked me, with irreplaceable friends and essential memories. It's the first place I ever moved with the actual intention of spending my life there. It proved me wrong and taught me bittersweet lessons about the illusion of permanence. It's been a bittersweet journey all through, this voyage home. Because I do feel at home in Brighton. And in Durham. And in California. And, also, in Toronto. I'm not so much displaced as over-placed. Or perhaps misplaced. I must reflect.
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