I time-travelled last week. Unexpectedly, I found myself in between a hearing and a coalition meeting with 30 minutes to spare. Out in the East Valley, there was not enough time to go back to the office, but too much time to go early to the meeting... I went back into my childhood instead.
The morning was beautiful. Vast, blue skies. Soft, gentle sun. Cool autumn breeze. The first fallen leaves scurrying across the ground. Successful adoption hearing for an adorable little guy. Yes, it was a beautiful morning. I exited the freeway and entered memory lane, to the home where I spent the first nine years of my life. The home is for sale. I peered through windows, peaked over walls, stood outside houses of childhood friends, and walked to the park down the street.
I always feel sad when I visit this house. There is something so tender and aching about the ghosts of our childhoods - especially the ghosts of truly great ones. I telescope time, collapsing the years on themselves, and see little faces peaking through the front window blinds - waving goodbye and blowing kisses to a young, dark-haired dad as he drives to work. I see that same father working in the yard while my sister and I climb to habitual perches in the citrus trees. I see myself, teaching my brother how to ride his bike; I see my parents unloading us from the van after Sunday night church and initiating the traditional "Race Around the Yard," for which my brother (littler than his two, strong sisters) was always given a head start or short-cut route. There's my mom, dressing us for school, planting flowers, and serving our "Christmas Carol" dinner by candle-light in winter evenings. We built that fence. We dug that pool. We planted that tree. We covered that driveway with chalk masterpieces. We lived on our bikes - up and down the street. We did all that - twenty years ago.
Now, the yard my dad worked to keep a vibrant green is dry and brown. Now, my childhood friends are gone; one of the best is dead. Now, the pool is half-empty and the bare driveway is decorated only with those first, few leaves of fall.
I feel sad because of the loss of beautiful things. My memory is limited and only quick pictures of innocence and wonder and uncomplicated pain are there with me - an idealized past and a place I can never truly get back to. I think I've always half-believed that when I was married and had a family of my own, I'd be able to find my way back. I'd be able to share that place and those memories with someone who would carry them with me away from that place and into the future. And the stark contrast of my alone-ness as I stand silent and still on the sidewalk compared to the vivid, noisy, and crowded world in my mind just makes my heart ache.
That day was different though. That day was beautiful. It was more sweet than sad, and I suddenly realized the very obvious fact that the beauty and life I feel is lost, isn't really - instead it has gone with me from that place a long time ago, carried into the future by my family and all those I shared it with - who I'm so blessed to still have with me. Everything beautiful that can be kept is wrapped up in their memories as well, and having them is having the best part of that house, yard, neighborhood, and park. Having them is having the best part of my childhood.
I was so excited to see my sisters that night - as excited as I would be for dear friends who I've not seen for a long time.
1 comment:
I love this blog. As usual, you make me cry, in a good way "cry". I need to know you have good memories of this house. I really do. I think God wants us to have a taste of these memories that we cherish just to keep us focused of what we have to look forward to in Heaven, and that will be in a place and time that we will never have to leave or grow out of or away from anyone. I think that is so cool. I don't know, thats how I feel.
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