I take a bike ride every day. I always go 2 1/2 miles minimum. Tonight I went farther, to my old neighborhood, my childhood neighborhood. I've been going there once a year for the last three years. It just amazes me that I still get that "I'm home!" feeling when I round the corner; but I'm also amazed that things look so small every time I go there.
The only things that aren't smaller are the trees. My dad planted two maple trees, one for my sister and I, at each end of our front yard. Well, one is gone and has been replaced, and the other, mine, is so large around that I would guess it would take almost two adults to circle it. The third tree, a plum tree, that Dad planted for my baby sister is big and doing well.
I've always wanted to go inside the house that my dad built for us to live in from 1957 to 1988, but I am afraid if I get inside that the changes will wipe away my memories. But today as I rode down the sidewalk, I stopped my bike right in front. I looked at the trees, the flowers, but not too close. I wondered what the owners would think if they saw me looking. Then I noticed that the front door was open behind the screen door; and before I could give it a second thought, I rode down the sidewalk and into the street and continued my ride through the next block, with memories aflurry in my mind's eye.
As I write this, my eyes are flooded with tears when I recall that opened door. It's just the closest I've ever gotten to really, really thinking about stepping inside.
Have you ever gone back to your house after years of being gone? Will going there take away the memories I cherish....of the home my dad built....of the home my mother made....of the loving, caring life my parents gave us in this house on Juniper Street?
I wonder if I can do it. I wonder if I should do it. I know that I am the only one that can answer that. Maybe the next time I go there, I'll be able to walk up to the porch.
The only things that aren't smaller are the trees. My dad planted two maple trees, one for my sister and I, at each end of our front yard. Well, one is gone and has been replaced, and the other, mine, is so large around that I would guess it would take almost two adults to circle it. The third tree, a plum tree, that Dad planted for my baby sister is big and doing well.
I've always wanted to go inside the house that my dad built for us to live in from 1957 to 1988, but I am afraid if I get inside that the changes will wipe away my memories. But today as I rode down the sidewalk, I stopped my bike right in front. I looked at the trees, the flowers, but not too close. I wondered what the owners would think if they saw me looking. Then I noticed that the front door was open behind the screen door; and before I could give it a second thought, I rode down the sidewalk and into the street and continued my ride through the next block, with memories aflurry in my mind's eye.
As I write this, my eyes are flooded with tears when I recall that opened door. It's just the closest I've ever gotten to really, really thinking about stepping inside.
Have you ever gone back to your house after years of being gone? Will going there take away the memories I cherish....of the home my dad built....of the home my mother made....of the loving, caring life my parents gave us in this house on Juniper Street?
I wonder if I can do it. I wonder if I should do it. I know that I am the only one that can answer that. Maybe the next time I go there, I'll be able to walk up to the porch.
