A Walk in the Past
I remember the day all too well, though my heart begs me to forget it. The memories are hard to bear, the moment hard to look back upon. It’s a Saturday. A cool, brisk Saturday, weighted with the promise of winter.
I am biking, but my head is soaring. I am flying through the trees, dancing with the changing leaves. The world is painted with the endless possibilities it promises. I am free. As I glide through the November air, the idea plants itself in my brain and begins to grow, begins to develop roots and spread and grow, begins to flower and flourish and grow. I know where I have to go. I have no choice; the idea seizes my mind and clouds my vision. My brain is no longer engaged in navigating; my feet turn the pedals, my hands steer the bike, as if someone else is controlling me. I am a marionette, unsure of the plans of my puppeteer. I am surprised when my bike turns down the street, surprised that I am able to find it so easily. I suppose I thought the years had wiped my memory clear, but they must’ve missed a spot. I decide to fix that later, erase it from my head as though it was never there. After all, it hurts to let go, but it kills to hold on.
My bike screeches to a halt, tires spinning in a leaf pile. Brown and orange and yellow colors surround me, and I look in wonder at the blizzard of fall. The leaves settle, and time seems to freeze. The street is a portrait; no, it’s a still life, hanging in silence. The houses gaze down at the empty street, waiting, watching, observing. They seem closer together than I remember, forming one unbreakable defense line. I am not welcome here.
A force within me pulls the back of my throat deep into my stomach, and I look down. I can’t gaze at the end of the street. I can’t. I can’t search for the stucco house with the maple tree and the little angel statue and the front door with squeaky hinges. This is a mistake, I know this now. I should not have come here. I was once welcome here, but all good things are lost with time. I have lost this place.
My heart is beating faster than it should, so I sit on the sidewalk and look at my Converse. The wind has picked up a little, or maybe I’m imagining it, or maybe I’m crazy. I certainly feel crazy, because I can’t seem to grasp that this is only a place. Only a street, only a park, only a pond. To me, it’s all a home. No. It was a home, but it is no more. Now, it’s a painful reminder of how things used to be. It’s only a place, I remind myself as I stand up. It’s clear to me that I have to do this, for myself. I’ll never be at peace until I let it go.
Locking my bike to the nearest tree, I walk hesitantly to the three white posts guarding the entrance to the greenbelt. They come up to my waist, but I remember a time when my hands couldn’t reach their rounded tops, no matter how hard I stretched.
A child rides past me on a tricycle, turning sharply between the posts, no reason to stop and think about them. I look with envy as the boy weaves back and forth on the path, not afraid of anything. He belongs in the park. He belongs here. I know that once, like him, the park was welcoming of me. My access seems to be denied now. My fingers run along the edge of the posts and I am painfully aware that I have been standing here for too long. I can turn back or go ahead, but I can’t linger any more. I want to cry but the tears won’t come.
My feet finally make the decision. I take a step, and then another. Ahead of me, in the middle of the path, is a fountain surrounded by tulips. Someone has let the flowers die, just like I’ve let my memories of this park fade away. They look so out of place in the cheery park.
Looking down at my black sweater and ripped jeans, I realize that I stand out just as much as
the flowers. My eyes flicker to the ground and I quickly stumble away, nearly taking out a happy couple and their dog.
Unsettled, like the autumn leaves that flutter around my feet, I float down the path. My body feels unattached to my surroundings, though everywhere I look stirs up new memories. Look there, see, that’s the tree I crashed into when I first learned to bike! And there, to the left of the light pole, that’s where I successfully tied my shoe for the first time. Reminiscing brings a slight smile on my face, and for a moment I take a walk in the past. I am six again, careless again, happy again. I am young and unafraid, innocent to the pain that’s coming my way.
I’m sprinting down the long dock, faster, faster, wind whipping through my hair. My arms are outstretched, palms open. Every time a board squeaks beneath my feet, I squint and make a wish, just like I did when I was younger. I wish this was part of my life now. I wish we had never moved. I wish my parents had never gotten –
My eyes jerk open, interrupting my inner dialogue, but it’s too late. The thought has plagued my mind, and the giddiness is gone quicker than the last days of summer. I trip on a wayward piece of wood and fall onto a bench. Embarrassment creeps into my neck and I shrink back into the dock. If I could only become part of the wood, disappear from this park and avoid these bittersweet memories. I close my eyes, but no matter how hard I try to vanish, I’m still sitting there when I open them.
A sudden gust of wind tangos with the trees, and I rise shakily, letting it push me away from the dock. I feel numb, and I dig my nails into my palm to gain some sense of feeling. My hand seems frozen, I can’t feel my fingertips. I push harder and harder into my flesh, wondering if I’ll eventually expose the hollowness of my insides. What am I doing here? I wonder again.
When did it get to be this hard?
I pay no attention to the playground as I pass it; maybe I would stop if there weren’t happy children running and playing, shrieking with joy and darting between the trees. Watching them is too hard, too melancholy. Too unbearable. Childhood is, to me, but a dream; I wish to remember it, to relive it, but I can hardly recall its sparkle.
I disappear into my thoughts, wrapping them like a blanket around me. I need all the protection I can get against the outside world. Every step matches my heartbeat, and I fall into a familiar rhythm. My heartbeat once pounded in the soil beneath my feet; it once tolled like a bell over the park, matched with the slap of my bare feet as I ran through the gravel paths and climbed the trees. My heartbeat was once part of the park, and the house was once my heart.
The house. I am standing in front of it now and I don’t remember leaving the park or walking down the street.
The house, I remember too well. Feelings swirl within me, my own personal storm, and I clutch my sweater. The feeling of illness sweeps over me again, and I cover my mouth. Hadn’t there been a tree there? And the hose – once green, now a clumsy brick red. Still, there’s no denying that this is the house of my past.
My instinct tells me to run up the driveway to the front door, and I do. Waves of recognition, one after the other, pound me like waves carve the beach during an earthquake. Perhaps that is what’s happening, maybe I’m caught in an earthquake. The ground beneath me seems as though it’s shaking. My fingers tremble. The smell of the lavender bushes floods my brain with scene after scene from my childhood, memories long forgotten. I can’t blame tectonic activity; no, my instability is my own fault. I’m facing my emotions after years of swallowing them, and I can clearly see that I’ve damaged myself worse than I’d ever believed I could.
My hand reaches out for the doorbell, ready to hear the familiar tune of the Westminster
chimes, ready to walk into my home and sleep in my room with the bumblebee wallpaper and the mirrored closet and the large windows. I want to catch pill bugs and pick rocks out of the garden and hide among the evergreens. But no, I remind myself. I pull my hand away sharply and back up, burning with shame. Dashing to the curb across the street, I curl in a ball and finally the tears come. They run down my face, great underground rivers seeing the light for the first time in six years.
When I lived here, I didn’t know why leaves change colors and fall away from their homes. I didn’t know that people can be so unhappy, they stop believing in family. I didn’t know anything about the world, and truthfully, I still don’t. But I do know that this place is no longer a part of my life.
Sitting up, I brush the tears off my face and turn away from the place I once called home. When I reach my bike, I unlock it. The bike lock falls to the ground and I don’t even pick it up. I am no longer tied to this place.
I point my bike in the right direction and take off, not even looking back. I leave in search of new places where I will once again feel at home. The past is at my back, and ahead of me, I see only my future.
Author Bio: Kali Mitchell-Silbaugh (she/her/hers) is a third year literature/writing major at the University of California, San Diego. She absolutely loves to write, and is particularly interested in exploring experimental genres and playwriting. In addition to writing, she also enjoys tutoring writing students, singing with her acapella group, and playing the drums.