I'm heading today to the state where I once lived, and where my brother was born. To the neighborhood where my mother found her greatest joy and from which she never recovered when forced to move. I'll be visiting friends who've hung in with me for 50 years.
Crazy to think that.
People think I'm crazy when I say this, but my past is told in places. Places, buildings, nooks, and crannies that hold the stories which define me. I can't wait. For the last three days, I've pictured the changes to the house where my friends grew up.
My friends' parents' house is the beginning. Last night I lay in bed with all sorts of stories running through my head. Memories of the piano where my brother pounded the keys every time he walked past it. The back patio where we used to eat lunch as kids. The backyard where I first used a lawnmower. The back bedroom where Stephanie and I played Barbies and, when we were older, waited for news about her sister's surgery.
The sewing room where Lois created. The second bedroom where Kim had twin beds, and we'd talk and talk long into the night. The family room full of Karl's books with the two doors, one leading to the kitchen, the other leading to the front entrance. I always picture Lois in one entry and Karl in the other. Especially the time Karl came down on Christmas morning to tell us to get back upstairs.
The basement. The kitchen. The dining room. The downstairs bathroom. The garage. All of these places hold a memory. Good times were had in that house with those friends.
I can't wait to see it all.
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