The flood of memories was relentless as I slipped through the dense forestry. My mind bubbled over with thoughts, so many that I could hardly keep my attention to the dreary setting around me. After all, it had been eight years since I had returned to the place of my youth, a large field I once knew as my backyard and play area. With every step, I brought myself closer to my old home, every step evoking new emotions and thoughts. My life had changed so drastically since I left that home, I could only imagine how unforgiving time had been to it.
The memories themselves, still as vivid as ever, gave a blind assurance that it would be the same. It had been my sanctuary, free of angst and discontent. I remembered the land as a holy one; every time I would go to it in my youth, my feet would sink into the ocean of grass. It was a wide meadow, rich with a deep sea green. Bordered by a river to the north and the hill to my home to the south, and flanked by depths of forest on either side, it served as the perfect playpen. Dandelions and daisies and weeds sprouted throughout. In my youthful curiosity, I found every flower and weed to be a new plaything, a new object to explore. Often, I would even be blessed to locate in the plant’s company a small creature, often a toad or beetle, whose actions I could observe for hours on end.
Whenever my interest in the field itself would wane, I had the forests watching over me. Through my boundless imagination, I created shelters within the protection of branches and leaves. With the trees, I developed makeshift homes. As my imagination flourished, my backyard became akin to my personal village, with separate buildings with separate purposes. My imagination gave life to all sorts of objects. A secluded pile of amber leaves became a makeshift, yet comforting bed. A fallen tree limb held valiantly up by another tree became my storage shed. A meticulously planned formation of branc hes developed into my coat rack. I had anything and everything; my backyard was my canvas and my imagination was my paint.
Yet this life could not last forever. I remembered the day we moved away from that peaceful abode just as well as I remember the place itself. With the move, I departed from my imagined world, what I thought would be for good.
With the memories echoing through my mind like with an endless fury, I found myself reminded that the winds of fate had brought me back to my childhood home. As the path opened up and I neared the meadow, I prepared myself. The first vision of home was of my childhood tree homes. These had long since rotted away, now lying upon the forest floor like fallen colossi, and I stepped solemnly by as though it were a gravesite. With that, I stepped forth into the meadow.
At first, I was unable to identify the field. It seemed as barren as the paths I’d taken to reach it. However, I simply needed to glance up the nearby hill to see an old home, and with the realization of returning home came a frightful sense of dread. My land was no longer a haven. It was now a wasteland.
No more did I sail upon seas of green. Underneath my feet was harsh, cracked mud, reminiscent of the most barren of deserts and dead seas. The only plants that now grew from the iron-red were weeds—not soft, melodic weeds, but harsh, pale, spindly weeds that grew to my knees and scratched at my ankles. The toads and beetles were gone, replaced by hordes of mosquitoes and locusts. My eyes searched the infertile land for some source of condolence in the ruin. They found none, sans the lifeless, fallen branches that covered my old tree forts, blankets upon a grave. It was then that the last hopes of my haven’s survival flew from my mind like a dove from a war zone. My home, my memories, had gone.
I rubbed the chills from my arms, though it was not a cold day. It felt as though ice had suddenly washed over my soul. This scene, wholly a place of joy in my youth, had now become an abrasive reminder that time is constant and cruel. I had regained some of my lost youth by returning to my home state, but this was the slap in my face that not everything will be embraced forever.
My feet soon carried me away from that land, back into the familiar forests toward my new home. Though what I had witnessed resounded deeply within me, I slowly meditated over the situation. I did not cry, or scream in anger. Instead, I smiled. It was a smile that told the world I was willing to accept this change. It was a smile that showed I was proud to have been able returned to my home. And most importantly, it was a smile of thankfulness. I thanked the world for allowing me to witness that haven before it fell to time, and thanked nature for all the memories. Time may have destroyed my home, but time could not touch my memories. And that, I knew was most important of all.
I haven't seen it, but I can imagine what its like....
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