the last time i went back was almost ten years ago, for a friend's wedding. afterward, we drove south with my parents to visit my sister and my newborn nephew. he was, at that point, only a week old. very small, but just slept in my arms. i'm not a parent; i've never wanted children; but this is a very happy memory for me.
then there was one time i flew back, rather than drive (it only saved a few hours). i packed my classical guitar footrest — my mother used to play as well, and has a beat up aria that she's had since she was a teenager. i used to practice with it a bit at night before bed in the cool, dark basement. i wasn't very good at that point, but: i loved it. that guitar, and guitar generally, a connection for us.
i mention this only because at the airport i got stopped at security, asked by the scanner operator what the flat, toothy thing was in my bag. a footrest for classical guitar, i told her. and her earnest response, which i'll remember forever: oh! are you famous? do i know you?
(no; no)