Home is where the heart is?

There is tremendous excitement about going home. It has newness that is not new. Its a visit to the clinical doppelganger of one's youth. Everything is peachy keen in hindsight. Everybody can smile and giggle about what was once awkward and mortifying. Time heals all, evidently. It allows one to have that blissful experience, that of forgetting. Well, its not quite forgetting, its more like selective recollection, fashioning what has come and gone into something idyllic and lasting. Visiting home is always like that. Remembering what was with gloss and polish, to create rather than recall the past.