I went back to my old house, one I had lived in for ten years, a year or two ago. After we moved out in ‘03, a family moved in and out fairly quickly, and then a friend of mine, not a really good friend, but nevertheless a friend, and his family moved in when I was in tenth grade or so. I didn’t think much of it, and would occasionally joke with him about it. One Saturday night toward the end of eleventh grade when his parents weren’t there he decided to have a party. I was apprehensive, but I went anyway, completely sober (don’t know why).
As it turns out, nothing had changed. Everything was arranged exactly as it was when I lived there, just with slightly different furniture. The only difference was that I was older, and a quarter of my grade was packed in and around the house, drinking, spilling stuff everywhere, smoking bowls in the backyard, and the like. I laugh remembering noticing the swing-set was still in the very back, though by then everything wooden had begun to rot away. No one was hanging out back there, so I went back there and stood around a bit, as the swings were much too small by then to fit in by then, and I had doubts about the strength of the frame.
I walked back toward the house, past all of the people smoking and trashing where I used to play as a kid, places I still had vivid specific memories around. The worst part was, no one around knew I had ever lived there, except my friends I had come to the party with, who really didn’t care much anyway. I might have spoken five sentences total the entire time. I was just kind of sadly, quietly, slowly walking around, just looking, and reminiscing.
I went back inside, into the crowd of people who knew nothing, and saw my friend, the owner of the house. I wasn’t mad or disappointed with him; it was his house, he could do what he wanted. If I had anyone to be mad at, it was myself, for going to the stupid party. We laughed together about the house, or at least I faked laughter, and I asked if I could go back into the house and see my old room. He was happy to let me go check it out. I walked down the hallway, now much smaller and shorter than I could remember, past the line of girls at the bathroom I used to shower in, and headed for my room. Luckily, no one was hooking up in there; they were using my younger brother’s room for that. As it turned out, it was my friend’s room now, and nearly everything was arranged similarly. I just leaned there against the door frame, just standing there for nearly ten minutes, just thinking. I didn’t cry, I didn’t smile, I just sat there in the doorway with a blank look on my face. I felt nothing; there was nothing to go back to, only fading memories.
At that point I backed out and walked back into the den, where everyone was still partying. I signaled to my buddy that it was time to go, and he understood well. I silently left. Looking back now, I feel like I was a ghost, when I suppose, in reality, I was indeed chasing one. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Don’t put all of your nostalgic value in places like homes, schools, or the like. Rather, cherish the memories themselves, because they are the real evidence, the real proof of what occurred, of where and who you were. Places don’t last forever, not even for a short time, and if they seem to, they aren’t the same.
