All trips are ones of nostalgia, even to those places that are new. This town was my home, for a while, although like every place it was not so much a home as where I dwelt. This town is where I lived with my brother, my father, my mother. This town had a hand in me, in the me that walks and talks the world. It is a place inked into me, for greater or lesser good. It is a place, one amongst many.
I have no reason to come back here now. My father is gone. My mother is gone. My brother lives in another place.
A last venture then, a trip of necessity, unwittingly bound in nostalgia and reminiscence. A trip to retrieve my mother, to take ownership of her ashes and convey her on the first steps to a place of rest.
I recognise this town. I used to dwell here. We all did. Memories. Dreams. A time long past.
I have no reason to visit again, and nostalgia isn't enough.
I carry it with me. That is enough.