A friend from elementary school through high school and beyond calls me.
She’s back in our home town, showing her adult children our old neighborhood. Do I remember my old house number?
A short time later I’m looking at a minutes-old digital photo of the house I grew up in. It looks very much the same.
A slightly darker shade of gray.
A low chain-link fence and a hedge next to the sidewalk. That is the only major change, and it neither improves or detracts from the way it looks in old photos.
I’ve written poems about this house.
I’ve dreamed about it. Wondered about some of my memories, with no one left to ask for corroboration.
It’s so small!
The house hasn’t been “improved,” added to, changed much at all. Yet I get a sense that it is well-cared for, and loved.
This thrills me, more than I ever would have imagined.