Today, on my way home from my sister's house, I passed Pleasant View Drive and was seized by this intense need to see the house I grew up in.
So I drove up the hill my sister broke her roller skates on, past the driveway we sledded down every winter with all the neighborhood kids (and there were lots of kids), past the sidewalk I learned to ride my bike on, the backyard where my best friend kissed me when I was 6, up to the little blue and white house.
And everything was the same. The fence was more faded, and the crack in the sidewalk (we used to hide things there) a little bigger, but almost everything was the same. The Dann's house was still immaculately clean and incredibly red, the spot on the pavement where Jason spilled the paint was still bright purple, the Coryn's house still dark and scary. Even those garish, mismatched, blessed purple and pink crepe myrtle trees were still there.
This was the house we loved most. Here the March family grew, had a war, survived a flood by building an ark... here the Greens visited and Elliebird and Monolog and I put on our horrifically long plays about separated Scottish twins who get glued together by fate. I met my best friend, Emily, at this house. In this house we sheltered a litter of rescued kittens and a herd of baby chicks (we tried to teach them to fly... oops), and saved our beautiful kitten, Shadow, from an abusive home and a horrible thunderstorm. He was with us 15 years, and died last week. While we had him he served as King of Beanieland, fierce protector of the March and Halfpenny farm (our dollhouse world), show lion in our backyard circuses, Emperor of the neighborhood animals, and cart-oxen for our dolls.
I didn't expect to cry. I miss Shadow, my little friends, the silly fights we had about which polly pocket house was best, Jason, the muddy-shoe club, and all the silly things that make being little feel so different.
