They say you can never go home again.

Well, you can. Only you might find yourself staying at a Trave Lodge, driving a rented Ford Contour and staking out your childhood home like some noir private eye just trying to catch a glimpse of the Johnny-come-latelys that are now living in YOUR HOUSE.

It's a familiar story. Kids grow up, parents sell the family home and move to some sunnier climate, some condo somewhere, some smaller abode. We grown up kids box up all the junk from our childhoods—dusty ballet shoes, high school text books, rolled up posters of Adam Ant—and wonder where home went.

I'm not a sentimental person, I told myself. I don't need to see old 3922 26th Street before we sell the place. I even skipped the part where I return home to salvage my mementos from the garage. I let my parents box up the stuff which arrived from San Francisco like the little package you get when released from jail. You know, here's your watch, the outfit you wore in here, some cash. Here's the person you once were.

After a year, San Francisco called me home again. I missed it. I cruised over to my old neighborhood. There was the little corner store my mom used to send me to for milk, the familiar fire station, the Laundromat.

I cried like the sap I never thought I'd be. I sat in the car, staring at my old house, tears welling up.

I walked up and touched the doorknob like it was the cheek of a lover just home from war. I sat on our scratchy brick stoop, dangling my legs off the edge, feeling as rootless as I've ever felt.

As much as I'd like to buy the cliches about home being where the heart is, or as Robert Frost put it, "The place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in," a part of me thinks the truth is somewhere between the loftiness of all those platitudes and the concreteness of that wooden door on 26th street.

I'll probably be casing that joint from time to time for the rest of my life. I'll sit outside, like a child watching someone take away a favorite toy, and silently scream, "MINE!"