I Don't Live Here Anymore
When I was 18 years old, I caved.
After years of disinterest (I mean, how good could it actually be?), I finally picked up the first Harry Potter book. I felt certain I wouldn’t enjoy it.
Within six weeks, I had finished the entire series.
With the wood quietly crackling in the fireplace, my family asleep, and the Christmas tree glowing, I remember turning the final page of the seventh book. I cried (obviously). Not only did I cry for the story itself (I understood the hype!), but I also cried because it was over.
From time to time, I still reread the series, returning to my favorite fantasyland, finding comfort in the familiarity of the characters. But these rereads will never recreate my first experience of magic.
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I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.
Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.
During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.
There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.
The coffee shop redid their menu; my go-to dishes aren’t available anymore. The hillside winery no longer produces my favorite raspberry wine. The hip burger joint that once employed dear friends and familiar faces is now staffed by strangers. The Mexican restaurant — well, God bless, it hasn’t changed a bit… except to introduce a loyalty program after I left (the AUDACITY!).
My friend and I even drove by our old apartment, the home where I spent more than half of my time in Nashville. A lamp, but not ours, glowed from the living room window.
I don’t live here anymore — not in this apartment, not in this city, not even in this region of the country.
It hit me like a freeway rock shattering my car window (yeah, that happened): Nashville was home. Past tense.
During those 8 days, I realized that — like trying to reread the Harry Potter series — any future returns to Nashville can never recreate the ten years I called that city home.
Nashville was home. The season is over; the series is finished.
But with an ending, there is always a beginning. The sun sets, but the moon rises.
Phoenix is home. And the story is just getting started.
Windrose Co-Founder & Editor
Ally is a 2014 graduate of Belmont University in Nashville, the city she still calls home. She owns a cat named after C.S. Lewis and buys way too many concert and plane tickets and then writes about it. She believes London is the most magical city in all the world and will defend this position somewhat aggressively. She owns Cadence Copy Studio, a copywriting agency for small business owners. You can check out her music, travel & life musings on her personal blog, Maps & Mochas. Then come say hi — Ally is the one who answers emails (and the one writing this description about herself in third person).