On my last visit to my hometown, I convinced my sisters to take me to the house of my childhood, in the neighborhood I knew so well. They warned me that I wouldn't like what I'd find there. It turned out to be an understatement. My heart broke when I saw the pile of rubble behind the tall PVC fences. The new owners have decided to start from ground zero.
The tall, majestic acacia was notably missing from the place where it stood for more than 50 years. The guava tree that I climbed and fell hundreds of times from has been replaced by an ugly-looking shanty that apparently serves as a respite from the sun for the construction workers who were nowhere to be found.
There was something sad about the place. The fact that the old house was no longer standing lent it an aura of abandonment. I could almost hear
it tearfully asking, "Have you forgotten?" In my mind's eye, I saw the low-hanging awning that almost kissed the brick fence weakened by vines and years of trying to keep flood waters out. How many times have I climbed that fence to get to the roof and pretend that I was Wonder Woman? No, I haven't forgotten. Some memories have faded like a 20-year-old photograph, the ones with jagged edges have been smoothed by years of retelling and the good ones have taken on a surreal quality.
Slowly it dawned on me that no matter how hard I try to recall every last bit of laughter, every skinned knee, and all the dreams that were birthed in that house, it wouldn't change things. The reality is I'm no longer a child and the closet in the old basement that was the only witness to my childhood fantasies of princeses and dwarves and imaginary friends is gone forever. What I had there is no more. Seeing the rubble brought a sadness that I couldn't explain but it also aimed spotlights on clean slates. New beginnings.
When we finally found the courage to drive away, I have finally closed that chapter in my life and everything associated with it. Thank God for closures.
The tall, majestic acacia was notably missing from the place where it stood for more than 50 years. The guava tree that I climbed and fell hundreds of times from has been replaced by an ugly-looking shanty that apparently serves as a respite from the sun for the construction workers who were nowhere to be found.
There was something sad about the place. The fact that the old house was no longer standing lent it an aura of abandonment. I could almost hear
it tearfully asking, "Have you forgotten?" In my mind's eye, I saw the low-hanging awning that almost kissed the brick fence weakened by vines and years of trying to keep flood waters out. How many times have I climbed that fence to get to the roof and pretend that I was Wonder Woman? No, I haven't forgotten. Some memories have faded like a 20-year-old photograph, the ones with jagged edges have been smoothed by years of retelling and the good ones have taken on a surreal quality.
Slowly it dawned on me that no matter how hard I try to recall every last bit of laughter, every skinned knee, and all the dreams that were birthed in that house, it wouldn't change things. The reality is I'm no longer a child and the closet in the old basement that was the only witness to my childhood fantasies of princeses and dwarves and imaginary friends is gone forever. What I had there is no more. Seeing the rubble brought a sadness that I couldn't explain but it also aimed spotlights on clean slates. New beginnings.
When we finally found the courage to drive away, I have finally closed that chapter in my life and everything associated with it. Thank God for closures.
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