Some nights there is nothing new. When the new doesn’t show the old raps quietly at the door and I of course invite her in, because I love her and I know her and I remember the times we used to have.
I remember the old house with the weeping willow tree in the back. How the catkins cascaded around me and hid me from the rest of the world and the neighborhood. It was only our house for a few years, before things changed again, but those few years were lovely. For me, at least. My mother tells me the house was in need of lots of work, that we were running out of money. I remember my sister being deeply in love with her boyfriend and I had my typewriter and my books to keep me warm. One Spring there were baby doves in my flower box. I still dream often of that house.
I’ve lived on the other side of the world and on the other side of town but now I’m (by pure weird luck/grace’s sake) about 2.5 miles from that green tri-level that used to hold the doves and the magnolia and the willow and me. The magnolia is still there. The one I used to sit in and smell the blooms and bring my little lock and key diary to. I’d fill it with a few secrets (something about a boy named Trevor, usually) before the branches started to scrape my legs and I knew it was time to get down.
I scour craigslist daily, just waiting to see if it’s for rent or for sale. We couldn’t buy it of course but renting would be a whole possible ball of nostalgic wax. We’ve been all over and we haven’t had a yard in two years which used to not bother me but now Xander is six and I want him to have the magic that I had.