This evening I went and walked around the yard of the place I moved out of 17 years ago, with the owner not home. I didn't go in the barn, though, just peeked in. The owner as much as said I could come any time, but I was hoping he'd be home so I could go in the barn and maybe even the house.
I oohed and ahed over different trees that are slightly more rugged now but mostly the same... and a dip in the ground that I suspect is the remains of a garden I dug... because my idea of digging a garden was to jump on the shovel to cut out squares of sod, then pick up those squares of sod and stack them to the side. There also may be a nest of marbles in that spot.
Some part of me even imagines that somewhere in the house is still a little matchbox police car that plays a siren when you press the wheels. Because in our last few months there, I lost track of that car, which was by far the coolest matchbox car we had. And I latched onto the idea that, certainly when we moved, it would turn up because all the furniture would be pulled away from the walls, etc. But I wasn't home when the final move was made.
I would really really love to walk around inside the barn. I don't have to, though. By walking around the yard, and barely peeking in the barn door, I am assured that my memories of the barn are sound. They are so whole, that it's almost as good as if I actually did get to go in there.
It's just unbelievable to me that our minds can store such vivid realities into memory. The entire property could have been, say, burned to the ground. And there my memory would be, uncertain, but there. But it just so happens to be there, almost exactly like it used to be, and so my memory is verified.
I left a gushy note in the owner's mailbox thanking him for making the place beautiful again, briefly cataloging my walk around the yard. Because there are certain ideals I hold regarding community and human interaction, and one part of that embracing Narrative as a natural part of communication. The mother in me says "even if it weirds people out, there are less detectable, but more long-term, good effects."
Some part of me even imagines that somewhere in the house is still a little matchbox police car that plays a siren when you press the wheels. Because in our last few months there, I lost track of that car, which was by far the coolest matchbox car we had. And I latched onto the idea that, certainly when we moved, it would turn up because all the furniture would be pulled away from the walls, etc. But I wasn't home when the final move was made.
I would really really love to walk around inside the barn. I don't have to, though. By walking around the yard, and barely peeking in the barn door, I am assured that my memories of the barn are sound. They are so whole, that it's almost as good as if I actually did get to go in there.
It's just unbelievable to me that our minds can store such vivid realities into memory. The entire property could have been, say, burned to the ground. And there my memory would be, uncertain, but there. But it just so happens to be there, almost exactly like it used to be, and so my memory is verified.
I left a gushy note in the owner's mailbox thanking him for making the place beautiful again, briefly cataloging my walk around the yard. Because there are certain ideals I hold regarding community and human interaction, and one part of that embracing Narrative as a natural part of communication. The mother in me says "even if it weirds people out, there are less detectable, but more long-term, good effects."
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