My home. Their home.

 

Every day there is a memory.

Driving on the road between Brian’s old house and mine.  The road that we used to speed down in his old brown truck (his hand on my knee) to make it home for midnight curfew.

Passing the alley behind the coffee shop where I used to work, the alley where I sat and cried on the day that Brian broke up with me.

The Aquatic Center where I took swim lessons for years, and met the girl whom I still cherish in friendship today.

Smelling the impending Oregon summer and remembering lying in the grass with that best friend of mine, next to a sprinkler and working on our tans.

The Minute Mart where my dad would take me to get candy sometimes.  Where I would choose the Charleston Chew because it seemed like the biggest option.

The street where my Mom used to turn to get to my music lessons.

Restaurants where I went on dates (and not just with Brian…), and the park where Brian told me that he liked me for the first time.

Everything smacks of freedom and childhood and the cocoon of growing up in a loving home and having everything out in front of you.

.

And now, little by little, my children are claiming pieces of these memories.

Visiting the restaurants.

Recognizing the roads.

Swimming in the pool.

Smelling the almost-summer Oregon air.

Running through the parks that used to have my footsteps on them.

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And it is so wonderful because I am so glad to have them here!

I can share in their happiness,

to see them enjoying the fruits of my youth,

But it is hard and weird because it used to be MINE,

back when I was ME and not US.

And Oh, when will this roller coaster ride to adulthood finally end and I can feel like I have finally arrived?

An adult.