Lately I’ve been thinking about the house that my family used to live in on the corner of Kezee St. Eleven years ago to be exact. It was a large white, slightly slanted house with a torn down garage in the driveway. Our home was just down the road from my cousin’s house so we would stay gone for hours on end running around and exploring the neighborhood. I still remember the looks that we received because of how many of us there were. Sometimes there would be five of us and other times whenever my family from across town would come visit there would be ten. I’m sure it looked funny; a herd of young Hispanic kids walking in the street. Me and my cousin, Titos, trailing along behind in the grass because we weren’t old enough to walk with the big kids.
I never would have guessed how much I would miss these moments, but here I am now sitting in my sister’s apartment, dog sitting and reminiscing back to my childhood. I’m 20 now, and sometimes it just feels so strange. I start to notice how everything around me is changing and time seems to continuously slip right through my fingers. Whenever I go back to my hometown during the holidays to visit my Aunt and walk the same paths that I would when I was younger, it feels almost like a movie. A distant memory that will forever be etched into the streets of my city.
I look over at the train tracks, then remember the countless nights sitting up in bed, not being able to sleep because of the thundering and shaking of the train as it rolled down the railway. I remember how, despite our mom’s stern insistence not to, we would put coins down to be smashed. We never knew what we would use them for, we just thought they looked neat, almost like those silver and gold talismans used in movies.
I remember the old, weather beaten shed in the back that my sister’s and I turned into a clubhouse. Friends would come and go, but all of our names painted in an old can of red spray paint would remain.
Then there was the cucumber plant that my dad planted and to this day I still have no idea if it bloomed. Maybe the person who had moved in after us or even the person after them would have found it. Either way, the mystery remains, because now the house is gone forever. It was sold to the city who would knock it down, taking all of our memories with it. Sold to someone who had no idea what it meant to the three girls who lived there eleven years earlier. The house in itself is now just a ghost.
Recently, when my sister and I drove to Kezee street during the holidays to look at the rubble, I realized that even though our memories were here, this was not our home. Our home was the feeling that would follow us to every house after that, because we were all together. This big, slightly slanted white house with the broken down garage in the driveway was home to one of the most beautiful moments in our lives and though it’s foundation has crumbled, our memories will not.
Thank you so much to whoever reads this. I hope you all had a very merry Christmas and I will be back hopefully sometime before the new year. xo