o, how things have changed

It's hard to not feel something when you visit the house you grew up in, almost ten years later. I was drowned by a flood of memories, nostalgia and a longing to go back to that time of innocence. Every sense was firing on all cylinders: the smell of the maple tree in our front yard, the feeling on my hands of the old wood handrail that lead to our front door, to name a few. Certain things began to take me back to memories I hadn't thought about in years: the two huge pine trees in my front yard took me back to the time my cousins from Texas visited, and we spent the week climbing those massive conifers. But the thought that I just couldn't shake was the obvious change that had occurred, not only in the evident aging of our cozy home, but the change that had occurred in my own life.

I walked out of our three-bedroom home on October 28, 1998, not expecting to see it ever again. At 13 years old, having to go through a move across the country is a pretty impacting event. When I was 20 years old, I moved back to the city I grew up in, living not more than a 30 second drive from that house. My first day back in town, I had a longing to see the house, like a pining to see an old friend. My family had told me that it had become very worn-down, and quite the eyesore too. In spite of this fact, I still felt that I needed to see it. One afternoon, while my parents were at work, I decided to put on some music and walk down to the house. Though I was alone as I walked through a tunnel of orange, brown and yellow deciduous trees that ran alongside my old street, a soundtrack of soaring strings and beautiful synthesized pianos accompanied me. I slowly approached my old friend, and quietly looked up into those deep green pine trees, that I used to know so well. The front lawn had become a prison yard, with a high fence creating a barrier between the road and my old makeshift soccer field. I rested my crossed arms on one of the fence posts, and tricked my eyes into seeing the way things were. I didn't see the old, broken down cars in the driveway, or the chipped paint of the siding, or the front porch that cried out for a renovation. Rather, I saw the flowers my Mom had planted along the driveway, the fresh coat of bright blue paint on the sidings, and the welcoming front porch. I saw my brother and I playing catch in the front yard, as my Mom and Dad sat on that inviting porch, enjoying a lovely summer afternoon. Time travel, for that moment in time, was far easier than I would have ever imagined. All I had to do was close my eyes.

Time has a funny way of taking a memory, and changing it in every way possible. So many things change, but the strength of that memory will keep it the exact same. A memory is like an old paperback book, the quality of the paper may decrease and the binding may begin to break, but the story will never change. So much had changed from the last time I had seen that house, but no matter how decrepit the house had become, or how cynical I had become, the memories that I had stayed the exact same. It's interesting how much time will change something, but nothing will ever change time.