Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The Last House on the Right

My house was the last house on the right before the cow pasture. Then if you followed the road you would come to the local reservoir. I remember the times we would walk down the road to go wading, or simply to watch the sunset reflect off the water.

I recall that time a bunch of girlfriends accompanied me to the reservoir, but when we got there we noticed people were camping and fishing. It was a group of men and they started calling to us and swimming toward us.

So we left, jittery and linked at the arms, singing comforting songs to relieve our jitters. I was the only one that looked back at the vehicle that approached behind us. They were still calling to us and waving. I was the only one tempted to wave back. The others kept me safe from that piece of me.

If I were to walk the opposite direction from my home, I would pass an old trailer home, a white house, and then I would come to the scary broken-down brick house. This was the half-way point between my house and my best friend's that lived down the road. We would agree by phone to meet and then each walk down the road and meet in front of that house.

It was a comfort for us to know that we wouldn't ever have to pass that scary house alone. It's dark cracked or empty windows seemed to watch us as we traipsed passed. Usually we would talk of other things, avoiding the subject of the dark house. But our eyes always watched those windows as if waiting for some kind of creature to appear.

This was the street where I grew up. Now someone else has moved into my old home and then left it vacant and for sale once more. They tore down our precious trees and left our property like an empty casket. My friend's home also now belongs to someone else. Her parents built a home behind it down another road. Somehow, although those walls are new and different, it still feels like home there.

Whenever I visit, I am pulled to the street- to walk along that road again, pass the scary brick house with the dark windows that now seem to be some kind of historical monument, and down the dusty road to the drained and empty reservoir.

I would sit on the cement there to watch the sun go down again. Now, only imagining its reflection on the water.

1 comment:

  1. Dani...another great one! I hear those southern ramblings coming back again...this reminds me of a "coming of age" story and would make a great movie!




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