"Last night I dreamed that I was a child..."

I drove through my old neighborhood today and it felt like I tore through time.  I could see myself sitting beneath the trees in the Green Area, reading Nancy Drew with Keli.  I could see my brother jumping The Three Hills with Joey and his minions.  I could see Nellie and Jill laying out, trying to erase tan lines; and Grandma and Grandpa Fisher holding hands, taking a walk, adding a bit of southern warmth to the block.  I saw my mom sitting in the car, putting the top down to the Mustang.  But when I pulled up to my house someone else's car sat in the driveway.  And I felt replaced by a superficial lover.  Their yard was prettier--the grass grew for them.  The tree I used to do backflips off of was uprooted.  I found myself stirring with jealousy, wondering if this person knew what used to reside there.  How there used to be a peach tree in the backyard that bore so much fruit it grew limp and stunted its own growth.  Or how the apricot tree bustled with so much life it grew over the fence, and our neighbors would pick the fruit and bake us tarts because they were thankful.  And how a loyal dog's bones are buried deep beneath the earth.  I wondered if the walls felt thicker in my room from all the music, or if they kept the booth Mike made for my mom that lined the bay windows in the kitchen.  I wonder if they knew we once fit a Christmas tree in the living room that scratched the highest point of the ceiling, or how I loved to do my hair in the master bathroom because the three mirrors made it possible to observe and carefully pin the back of my head.  I wonder if they knew the backyard once hosted two weddings before we put in the pool, or how the back gate was always left unlocked so neighbor kids could come jump on the trampoline when we weren't home.  I wonder if they knew I once spent a summer destroying roses with my mother that were planted before her and for another--and how it took a couple years of digging and tearing before they wouldn't rise again.  And I wondered, if I was able to enter now would it still feel familiar, or would the tile echo what I've been suspecting all along: a house does not make a home.  As I drove past I saw my history unfurl beofre me, swirling images of opened and closed doors.  I wanted to stop, linger for a while but I knew I couldn't.  It wasn't mine any longer even though it felt that way.  So I let my foot rest on the pedal, not slowing or accelerating.  Just passing, as if it were just another house.


Song of the Moment: Ten Cent Blues - Eisley (Combinations)