Inner child

Recently I drove 200 miles to my home town to attend the funeral of a friend.  A man who, along with his wife, rode the elevator with my husband, my hours-old son, and me to the maternity ward.  His birthday was that same day, the day of our only child's birth.   Once the funeral was over, hugs and memories shared with his two adult children, I drove out to a house about 7 miles away.  It was our house. Built to our plans and sold when that only child was two years old.  Not sold before it left a mark on our friends and their children.  Leaving that home for another state our friend drifted away as the currents of life pulled us apart.

After the visit to our home, I drove back to the house where I spent my teen years.  During the drive an unusual thing happened to my conscience.  I was not driving a car down a road, I was parking the Falcon in my parents garage.  I was walking toward the oh so familiar screen door.  The smells in my mind were the smells of that garage.  The heat of the summers.  The sounds of my foot falls walking toward the screen door that led into the house. The feel of the metal handle.  The slam of the screen door against the wooden frame.  The feelings of youth.  In an instant it had passed.  But the joy of walking in that oft crossed portal remained.

lightening fast
transported to long ago
youthful once more

© petra domina