I came back to visit my old home town. My family had moved away when I was twelve. It was hard for me, having lived there all my young life; I’d gone to school with all the same kids since kindergarten. Hitting the awkwardness of puberty in a new school where I didn’t know anybody made it even more difficult. But I’d persevered and prospered and made my way along in my new life.
Now here I was, thirty years later, walking the streets where I used to play. None of the houses look as I remember them. I find myself expecting to see my friends come running out of their houses, still children of course, to see what we want to do today, like we used to do every day. But the doors remain closed, and the few people I see here and there are strangers in this place where (I thought) I used to know everyone.
I continued walking along, gradually making my way towards the outskirts of town. Soon the trees grew thicker and I realized I was close to the little pond where I used to fish. The short dock, creaky even when I was a kid, had become dilapidated and broken from weather, time and basic neglect. Obviously few kids, if any, go fishing in the pond any more, and certainly not off that rickety old dock. I stopped and took a picture of it, perhaps to remind myself that some things are better left in the realm of memory.