The spirit of Canton

I was at the house in Canton yesterday for another session of packing up my things. I’m moving to a new house, which was in the works back in the fall and has been delayed by the snowy winter.

I can’t express how hard it is to go back to Canton. The neighborhood will never be the same to me on a visceral level, and that hurts. But it’s reality. I’ve lived in Canton on two different occasions, in houses less than a block apart, and I felt like I knew those streets as well as the ones in my hometown — which strangely enough is a little village called Canton.

At the same time, as hard it is to go back psychologically, once I get there I don’t want to leave. It’s as if, in the moments between the moments, things can be different and I can stay.

As I made the many trips from the house to my car yesterday, I could sense that really nothing had changed in the neighborhood. Joggers glided by on the sidewalk. Dogs barked. People quietly went about their business. But at the same time, for me, everything has changed.

Soon, I will pack the last of my belongings and take them out of Canton. Having moved four times in less than five-and-a-half years, I hope it will be my last relocation for a while.

But the people of Canton, the spirit of Canton, the history of Canton, will always be with me. I cannot forget that.

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