I drove by my old house today, the house I lived in when I was six. It was tiny and grimy, just like I remembered. I only remember moments my mom took pictures of and maybe a bad dream, looking over at the bars of my brother’s crib, asking one of dad’s friends, I think it was Brad, to draw a star for a school assignment.
I remember cutting my hair at the base of my neck, listening to the neighbor boy who liked to swear, kissing my dog on the mouth in the yard. Bits and pieces of a swing set, and climbing trees with a friend who oddly enough I don’t remember at all.
All these things happened when I was six. Before we started and ended our life together as a family in a new house, a big house, a house most people know by sight if they had ever driven down Broadway. I used to be so proud as i squinted in the distance, “Look, you can see our house from here!”
I used to look in the side-view mirror or my mother’s beat up blue pickup truck pretending I was the star of all my own movies that played only in my head. Each new “home” was just another set… another setting for my next book. It’s shit-tastic remembering all these things, what have i lost? What was I worrying about when I was six and when did all these things became the past? What will today be when tomorrow is long-fucking gone? Will i ever be an old woman shriveling in her recliner or can I live on forever in these moments if I am willing to write them down?