Green trees, green moss, green grass, and wet, wet, wet.  My home.Or what used to be.

I scraped the nail off of my big toe on my right foot, turning the soft pink flesh into hamburger.  I learned the hard way, not to ride a ten-speed with flip-flops on.  The street was so long, so steep.  The speed of the wind in my face filled my mouth and whipped my unruly long hair.  Until I ran into a bush, scraping my hands and knees, or flew over the handle bars when I lost control of the front wheel.  But I kept getting back on.

A Merry-go-round of bicycles, big-wheels, and tri-cycles filled the cul-de-sacs summer days and warm nights.  Our house was big with an unfinished basement, which meant one thing, roller-skating.  The yard was a jungle of hedges, evergreens, and trees that frequently tossed us from their limbs.  The forest behind us, ever a wonderland.

Four days ago, I went back.  I drove up the short, sloping street.  Stopped in front of a little house, with a small yard.  Most of the trees had been taken down, the hedges ripped out.  No sign of our huge garden.  The forest of imagination and dreams was no longer, having been replaced by pedicured lawns, vinyl siding and asphalt roofs. 

The street was run down, the homes in disrepair.  Betty's house, which filled the street with floral scents and spring colors now coward behind molding trailors, broken cars, and overgrown weeds. 

Part of me was sad.  Sad that the little street once filled with bicycle parades and potential emergency room visits looked now like a forgotten cemetery.

The other part of me felt that was the way it should be.  I wanted it to crumble, to fall into the earth, to be swallowed.  I don't want to think about 177th place.  I went to say goodbye.  To stand on it's doorsteps as a woman, as a wife, as a mother, and tell it to let go of me. 

I don't know what lies ahead, but I know what creeps in the shadows behind me is crumbling.

I'm grateful for growing up, for getting bigger while the things behind me shrink. 

Dear 177th place,
I'm not a child anymore.