Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Melancholy

I forgave my childhood today.

And as I walked along my backyard, repressed memories seemed to fill my conscious and began to leave my inner mind. I suppose it was something I should have done a while ago, but yet, no matter how hard I try, I still can't seem to put a finger on why I've never forgiven the things that deserve it the least.

Although the swing-set, decomposing from history's reluctance, still greeted me with open arms; like an old friend.

But because of the decay, those wooden boards that safely lifted me from childhood games began to creak. The unnecessary nails that were beaten by the hands of a child were now rusting; even the sandbox that once held my friend's laughter was suddenly dictated by elongated, summer grass.
And it all became...so real to me.

It was real because I had grown into the female my eldest sister wished I would become. It was real because instead of a piece of chive laced between my fingers, it was now the carcass of the wooden structure that barely separated my strange, yet familiar, neighbor’s yard. It was real because instead of my mother's clothes line, there was no wire; not even a trace of her was here anymore.

If you walk inside my house, you'll find the cement that was once there is replaced by a wooden deck; light blue with white railings and the chips of paint poked at your feet. You'll see that the sky colored siding is still there, yet faded by the many storms we've endured. If you're lucky, my father might have even fixed the broken house lamp with its wires spit out its mouth.

It's almost like it's tasted the vile memories of this place.

The inside is different. Just like my morals, just like my goals. Everything has seemed to change; even the best friend I've had since second grade's home is different. I've decided that everything around me has morphed into something foreign and this is uncomfortable for people like me; people who aren't partial towards change.

The windows of my home are replaced. There isn't any more broken glass and you won't find another couple bickering in my living room for a while.

But the front door has always carried the indentation from my mother's mourning.

I have memorized the sound of my father's car, rattling the rocks underneath his Honda Civic as he came home from work. The smell of the dinner that my mother cooked is still embedded in my mind.

Yet, you can always fix a door.




Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback