Visiting one’s childhood home is like visiting the physical confines and expressions of your formative mind and inner life.
The trees my mom planted are huge, now. The paint scheme is still the same, most strikingly the address and the old mailbox (which is now painted, used to be white). The house has a second story, now, and the giant walnut tree was cut down a few years ago, it got sick, and my old lovely neighbors the Linharts are selling their house next door, I don’t know why, and the landscaping is all different, but still the same cracks are in the driveway and the porch where I can look at a photo now of my 8 year old self standing with my mom is still just the same. The crystal in the windows, the little details that will forever, whether I remember them or not, be etched in my consciousness.
Ah, our childhood homes are always a part of us, though we move out and have many further adventures in this long, short, endless, speedily concluding precious life of ours.
Photos (enjoy, mama):
hot on elephant
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