And so began my final stage of my boyhood in Mohawk. Later, as an adult, I would return from time to time. As a visitor, though, never again as a true resident. But then I wouldn't be a true resident of any other place either, joining instead the great multitude of wandering Americans, so many of whom have a Mohawk in their past, the memory of which propels us we know not precisely where, so long as it's away. Return we do, but only to gain momentum for our next outward arc, each further than the last, until there is no elasticity left, nothing to draw us home.
The passage reflects on the author's transition from boyhood to adulthood, marking the end of his true residency in Mohawk. While he continues to visit, his nostalgia is tinged with the reality that he has become one among many Americans who carry a piece of Mohawk within them. This shared experience now connects him to a broader community of wanderers, their memories propelling them forward on their journeys.
As he speaks of the longing for home, there is a sense of bittersweet acknowledgment that the further he travels, the more detached he becomes from any fixed place. Each return to Mohawk is merely a momentary pause before the inevitable departure, transforming the idea of home into a transient concept, continually pushing him further away until there might be nothing left to ground him.
