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Going Home
A few summers ago, my divorced father and I discussed vacationing at my birthplace, Columbia, South Carolina. I suggested we include my mother, my brother, and his family. This would be the first time, in over twenty-two years, that we visited the place where we were last a family. None of us realized the impact going home would have on us as a family and as individuals.
I was excited about going back, seeing if things were as I remembered. Did the places match the vision in my mind’s eye? I supposed that if it did, it would give credence to the memories I had of our once happy family. They were not a figment of a child’s imagination.
I stood before my elementary school. I recalled my kindergarten teacher and finger painting with chocolate pudding, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance every morning, recesses in the side yard, and the first male teacher I had, who instructed us in art.
Standing there as an adult, I could smell the mingling aromas of pudding and the ever-present floor wax. I was filled with mixed emotions, joy at the accurate recollections of the building and playground, and deep sadness for the loss of a life I might have had.
Our home was less than a mile from the school. The apartments were located at the bottom of a small but steep hill. I learned to ride my bike on that hill. After hours of fruitless lessons from my father in front of our apartment, we took one final trip to the top of the hill. I learned to operate the handlebars, the pedals, and the brakes by the time I reached the bottom. It was the same hill my dad attempted to skateboard down, the hill that tore away at his knees, elbows, and various other body parts so that he had to forego work an entire week.
I climbed out of the van and walked along the sidewalk in front. A vision of me lying on my back, neck hanging over the curb, staring up at the big puffy clouds, resurfaced. I smiled in remembrance.
As I turned the corner of the apartments, I saw the creek. Fragmented pictures popped in my mind: catching tadpoles, the surprise appearance of a summer snake, my toad collection, ‘vampire’ bats, and the senseless killing of secreted caterpillars from beneath the television set by my mom’s vacuum cleaner. My breath caught with the once forgotten memories that emerged from my subconscious. This place held more of me than I realized.
I listened, as we drove away, to my parents as they spoke of their special memories for that long ago place. Their voices echoed the melancholy that swept around us, as we drove from place to place, revisiting the past, honoring what used to be, and trying to come to terms with what never was.
As I lay in bed that night, sheltered by the darkness and encouraged by the mournful cry of the crickets, I wept like a child. I cried for the loss of my family as I had known it, the loss of my father in my life for so many years, and the loss of a familiar lifestyle. Mostly I cried for the loss of my innocence. This was the place where I had been whole, where life had been normal, where my little girl dreams had been secure, where there was a happily ever after. This was home.
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