San Miguel

Going back, turning the corner. That's where the mean girl lived, my old bus stop. I used to baby sit there... and there. Snobby people lived there. Creeping to a stop, high curbs, over grown lawns, chipping paint...

That tree is 23 years old, I watched them plant it. When my house was a skeleton of wood and nails, laying fresh sod then new carpet, wet paint. New neighbors, a new life.  A saturnine life, restricted and tight. Can't move, can't breathe, can't live. Years and years of running down the stairs, answering the door, opening the fridge. Growing weary, growing restless longing to spread my wings and embrace Jupiter in all of its expansiveness. Finally leaving, and never coming back...

Today, in my car. I remember this street being longer and our yard bigger. The tree has grown, dwarfing the entry way. Its huge branches shading everything, printing it in dappled sun light. Distorting its depth, or maybe I just don't remember the depth of this place anymore. Everything is the same and nothing is the same.

You can never really go back. Everything is faded and peeling, like a sad shadow of a melancholy childhood.