Aye Spy

As I drove to meet him I couldn’t help but be assaulted by the memories down the lane. Grandmother lived there, performed here, friends live there, trick or treated there, and so on. I never really think about my history here. This island’s every nook and cranny holds some sort of memory.

As I was surrounded by newbies, it was exclaimed how bizarre it was I grew up here. Likened to Disneyworld, too perfect to be real.

As we left, I drove by my childhood home, for sale and derelict. Impulsively I stopped and showed him, “This is where I lived. This was my home.” Grasping for an adventure he decided to explore.

At the top of the stairs I stopped and almost couldn’t go down. Completely overwhelmed by the onslaught of memories. Touching for the first time in 18 years the wall where my dad rested his beer, remembering my first sneak of alcohol. The hidden garden surrounded by stone, the playhouse a distant memory except for the remaining front step. I explained the lay out, gesturing with my hands.

“That window there was my bedroom.”

“The weirdly shaped roof? A buttery, remodeled into our dining room”

Pushing the emotions down and deep I wrapped up quickly. Our last stop in the garden where I introduced him to our beloved loquat tree, his first taste of my favorite fruit.

Sensing my emotions, we parted. Things suddenly became too real between us. Physically touching my history, a sense of my soul, was too overwhelming for the surface area we stay so easily. 

As I drove home, I realized my error and cursed my stupidity. It wasn’t a place to take him, or anyone. I should have explored on my own.

It is my lane after all.