So I Flipped Open My Childhood Diary…
Found the key to our old place while cleaning the garage last Tuesday. Instant time machine in my palm, right? Didn’t plan this whole thing – just grabbed my notebook and drove there like my feet weren’t listening to my brain.
First thing I did? Parked down the block. Watched our old blue mailbox lean crooked in the wind like it always did. Already the goosebumps were creeping up my arms.
- Walked up the path: Stepped on that crack near the third stair – used to think it’d break my mom’s back. Smelled the damp earth under the porch where my dog dug holes.
- Stood by the oak tree: Put my palm against the bark where Tim carved our initials back in ’08. Felt rough and cold. Different.
- Peered into my bedroom window: Saw pink curtains. Mine were blue. Stomach kinda flipped when I realized someone else sleeps where my monster truck posters hung.
Started scribbling in my notebook: “Weeds in Mom’s rose patch. Fence gate’s gone.” My handwriting got shaky halfway. Didn’t cry. Just… throat felt thick. Sweet Jesus, why does empty space hurt worse than broken things?
Came back home feeling hollowed out. Made instant coffee. Sat for two hours just flipping that key on the table. Click-clack, click-clack. Annoyed the hell out of the cat.
Big takeaway?
That house ain’t “home” anymore. The smells were all wrong. That cheap carpet we spilled juice on? Covered in fake-hardwood laminate now. Kept thinking happy stuff like treehouse fights with Tim and that stupid birdhouse we nailed backwards. But damn, seeing his initials faded almost gone? Felt like getting sucker punched.
Mixed feelings? You bet. Like finding your favorite childhood sweater in the attic – still smells like Mom, but moths ate half the sleeve. Makes you smile then stab sad in the same breath.
So Here’s The Ugly Truth I Scratched Down
- You can’t ever really go back. Places rot. People leave. Memories stay sharp, but stuff like that tree dies slow.
- Happy-sad isn’t wrong. Let both crash through you. Felt good remembering climbing that oak. Hurt deep seeing how brittle the branches are now.
- Don’t chase ghosts. Went back hoping something would still be mine. Found dust. Keys belong in jars or the garbage.
Dropped that rusty key off at the neighbor’s yesterday. He didn’t remember me. Didn’t care less. Kinda perfect ending. Life keeps shoving you forward, even when your stupid heart’s stuck scraping old glue off bedroom walls.
