Ah, Sylva. I have missed you in a way that a Stockholm syndrome victim misses their kidnapper.
To be in the small town in which I did a lot of growing up always is a bittersweet adventure. I am immediately overwhelmed with the staggering amount of familiarity this place has, then awash with the memories of what caused my need for exodus, and finished with a sense of calm and peace in understanding why my parents decided to move here. It’s beautiful here. It’s calm and relaxing. It’s …normal.
And yes, I never thought I’d ever say that about this little town, but it’s true.
Sure, a new storefront has shown up here and there. Some new restaurant has taken place of an old one. And I think I saw some building I’ve never seen before, but none of that matters. What matters is that if you scratch the freshly painted layer of this town, you still find the simple things that have always made this place what I’ll always call “home”. There’s the old coffee shop filled with locals, the familiar brick buildings that you can still make out in old turn-of-the-century photos, and even though the old diner has been replaced by some asian/mexican/whatever fusion eatery, you can still feel the old wood floors creak and spot the ornate tin crown molding when you step inside.
It’s been said you can never go back home, but with Sylva, I feel like that rule can be bent a little.