Yesterday, on our way home from New Haven, my dad and I stopped in his old neighborhood. Growing up, he lived in a project in the Bronx, but hadn't returned 20 years. As he gazed around, I could see it all coming back to him, the now small slope that terrified him when he learned to ride a bike, the community center where he played knock hockey after school and the grouchy old lady who would cut his baseballs in half wherever they were hit into her yard. I saw the tears pool in his eyes when we met a man who had grown up with him and had stayed in the neighborhood. As they reminisced, a smile crept onto my face.Occasionally, we all must return to our roots.
