Memory
I left Abby’s house after having dinner, and “Turn Around” by the Postal Service came on the radio. I got onto I-10 to drive one mile. I drove five. I then got onto 610 and drove six more. Back to Bellaire. Back to the house where I used to live. By the time I got there, I was crying and could barely see the road.
Earlier this week, I was sitting in my mom’s new house. More specifically, I was sitting on my brother’s bed in his room at her new house. I was looking at a picture of him and my mom, and then, next to it, I noticed a tower of What-A-Burger order numbers. The little orange and white striped triangles have a number on them so the ladies who carry around the trays know which order to give you. He collected those over the years, maybe even decades, and I know each one represents a memory for him. They are his memories though, so I could not say what happened the night he got 37.
When I got to my old house, I did not stay for long. I had to pull over a few houses down to make sure I was okay to drive. I thought of how I broke my arm at that exact spot. I was five. I also thought about the time Steven and I made out in his car the night I first told a boy “I love you.” I was 19. I thought about the day my dad left, driving down that street, knowing he would never sleep in that house again. I was 22.
I now live in a neighborhood ten miles, but worlds apart, from that suburban, tree-lined neighborhood. Neal lives in Manhattan now, surrounded by new towers that will surely give him new memories. My dad is re-married now. He has built a new house that is even more ridiculous than the McMansions dotting our old street. Things seem to get bigger and bigger for them both, but I feel like we’re just getting further and further apart.
A few months ago, I drove my mother to Missouri to bury her aunt. On the drive home, somewhere in the Ozarks, on a winding mountain road, my mom started to cry. I asked her why, and she replied, “Even after all these years, the curves on this road have not changed. Just for a moment, looking at them, I can go back.”
I guess that’s why I drove back to Bellaire tonight. I was trying to go back. The roads I took to get there were the same. Everything else, though, is different. Maybe I can look at the curves and think they’re the same, but I know they are not. I guess, year-by-year, I am starting to learn that you really can’t go back. Sometimes, though, I wish I could. Something, there must be something left to hold onto?
Earlier this week, I was sitting in my mom’s new house. More specifically, I was sitting on my brother’s bed in his room at her new house. I was looking at a picture of him and my mom, and then, next to it, I noticed a tower of What-A-Burger order numbers. The little orange and white striped triangles have a number on them so the ladies who carry around the trays know which order to give you. He collected those over the years, maybe even decades, and I know each one represents a memory for him. They are his memories though, so I could not say what happened the night he got 37.
When I got to my old house, I did not stay for long. I had to pull over a few houses down to make sure I was okay to drive. I thought of how I broke my arm at that exact spot. I was five. I also thought about the time Steven and I made out in his car the night I first told a boy “I love you.” I was 19. I thought about the day my dad left, driving down that street, knowing he would never sleep in that house again. I was 22.
I now live in a neighborhood ten miles, but worlds apart, from that suburban, tree-lined neighborhood. Neal lives in Manhattan now, surrounded by new towers that will surely give him new memories. My dad is re-married now. He has built a new house that is even more ridiculous than the McMansions dotting our old street. Things seem to get bigger and bigger for them both, but I feel like we’re just getting further and further apart.
A few months ago, I drove my mother to Missouri to bury her aunt. On the drive home, somewhere in the Ozarks, on a winding mountain road, my mom started to cry. I asked her why, and she replied, “Even after all these years, the curves on this road have not changed. Just for a moment, looking at them, I can go back.”
I guess that’s why I drove back to Bellaire tonight. I was trying to go back. The roads I took to get there were the same. Everything else, though, is different. Maybe I can look at the curves and think they’re the same, but I know they are not. I guess, year-by-year, I am starting to learn that you really can’t go back. Sometimes, though, I wish I could. Something, there must be something left to hold onto?