The Ruins of Nostalgia 67

Every time we went back to the city that used to be home, the housing prices

had gone up. Did you see the latest? Our relatives said. The old Anderson

house across the street went for $xxx,xxx. Three blocks over, they’re trying to

get $xxx,xxx for a teardown. Every time we went back to the city that used

to be home, more unprofitable bungalows had been torn down, and more

modernist boxes that filled the lots had been rapidly thrown up. Bungalow

after bungalow was disappearing in a city of bungalows. Garden after garden

was disappearing in a city of gardens. Every time we went back to the city

that used to be home, there were more profitable modernist boxes and fewer

gardens, there were fewer and fewer of the landmarks that helped us

remember that this was the city that used to be home. Every time we went

back to that city, we thought about houses, we thought about home. We

thought about the fact that realtors now called houses for sale “homes.”

Home after home was disappearing, but “home” after “home” was being

rapidly thrown up. Someday soon, new people would be calling these

“homes” “home.” Would it matter that none of them knew that, four owners

back, the unprofitable bungalow on that lot had been owned by the

Andersons, and that one afternoon we had watched in horror as old Mr.

Anderson fell from a ladder while trying to prune his blackberry bush, or that

one May Day we had picked a bouquet of daisies and dusty miller for old

Mrs. Anderson and then sat awkwardly in her dark living room, wishing we

were outside playing kickball with our friends? Everyone thinks they got in

on the ground floor of time. Everyone thinks they arrived in the city just

before the city turned, like the milk that never turns in the city’s lattes, like

the cream that isn’t really cream in the vegan cucumber ice cream. And

maybe we did—maybe we did all arrive in the city just before the city

turned. Maybe we did all arrive at the best spot in history, just before

everything started to go south. And maybe that is why we know that, for

now, the only home we can count on is in the ruins of nostalgia.