The late night drive in the back of a taxi from the airport to your childhood home has a certain character to it that's hard to put into words. If you have moved away then you're "home" but also returning to a changed place in a changed state. The streets and you don't fully recognize each other. There is the oval track you ran on in high school and around the corner a new condo they put up last week. The cab driver asks how it's going and your address but in between the instructions on where and when to turn you have a lifetime of things to tell him. But there is no context for the rest of the world for the river you are now stepping in for the thousandth time. Memories that had been dormant for decades suddenly reappear without notice. The apartment building where that odd teacher lived who in retrospect was more than a little creepy. A kid on a rival school's track team you briefly befriended and who would greet you with the subtlest nod of the head you always thought was really cool. As the car closes in on your house  - that same one you returned to from the hospital - you experience the vertigo of displacement. Disoriented at the thought of being here and there at once and in this same body.