Land

Upon arrival, three years of absence are wiped from your slate. Nothing has changed. The fields still rolling, the industrial edges of the large town continue their brutalist boxes of utilitarianism. The weather is lagom: not good, not bad, it just is, unoffensive, gray skies and soft ripples of sunshine, you feel no certain way about it. Boulders of the countryside whisper of giants playing games, the woods speak of trolls, you believe all of it because what is not to believe. At the train station, the conductor is flustered, yelling into the crowds that we got the wrong train set and it's each person for themselves, grab a seat if you can find it. I find a window seat so that when jet lag invariably finds me, I do not lean on a neighbor. As a child I loved the trains - always this sense of adventure, always a suspension of rules and reality. I feel that way still. 

Three years of absence like they never were. Entire relationships, families, new children have appeared in the space between. You think you are the same, but it is not true. An entire earthquake has come and gone. Every cell in your body has been exchanged for a new one. Some of them dented, some of them stronger than the ones which came before. It is too soon yet to say who you are now. 

You are older.
You are entirely new.