I years had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business, - just a life I left,
Was such still swelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off 
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.

(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, printed 2016)

I had a similar experience a few years ago when I travelled back to the home of my youth. Our little house still lay down a long, dirt drive. It was surrounded by trees – a woods that I used explore almost daily. But I couldn’t bring myself to drive all the way up to the house, so I turned around and left, with only a glimpse of the past. I think that we connect such good memories with the homes we lived in as children that we always want to go back. But is the house that we want to return to? Or could it be that we want to return to the youthful innocence and happiness that we knew there? I think Emily Dickinson expressed this desire when she said, “My business, – just a life I left, Was such still swelling there?”