“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.” -Azar Nafisi

I live on a street. A street in a town, in a state, in a country, on a planet somewhere floating in the middle of this star-filled universe; Stoughton, Massachusetts. A street twenty minutes south of Boston, and about two hours from the beautiful glowing green mountains of western Massachusetts. If this was a movie, it would be the part where the camera starts with a shot of a little light, almost lime, green house. With a tree that no longer exists right outside the front door where once you enter, you’re standing in probably the smallest kitchen you’ve ever been in.

The next part of the shot will be a bird’s eye view of the tiny little home. The camera will continue to zoom out and out until the house is almost unrecognizable. It will be so small, next to a bunch of other houses and buildings that look the same. The camera will continue up and up. Now all we can see is a spec of the ground with blue sky surrounding us, white puffy clouds floating by. Then up and up again until we’re finally in space. And we realize just how small this little green house is in comparison to everything else going on in the universe. This is only my story, a small experience in the existence of man, the existence of a world that took 4 billion years to make trees. I’m small, you’re small, now that we got that down, let’s continue.

This house also has a fence with a gate in the front yard, a fence that a good medium sized wind would easily knock down. The fence is white, with a black lock on the gate. I love the sound it makes every time is closes- a nice little ding noise to let you know you’ve closed it properly. In the backyard there isn’t a nice green patch of grass like most places. There isn’t even grass at all. In the backyard is dirt, and a few tufts of brownish green grass, if you want to even call it that, everywhere. The dirt is a light brown, and somehow to me, calling it dirt seems wrong because I’m sure you’re picturing something barren and a bit sad. This dirt is not sad, this dirt is my dirt, if you know what I mean.

One time when I was young, about the age when your parents are always driving you around and you’re learning long division and have some weird crush on a boy who won’t matter in years to come, something magical happened.

My mother would always cut up vegetables: celery, carrots, broccoli, and have them sorted out on the kitchen table with some yummy ranch dipping sauce for when we came home from school. There was four of us including me, so she had her hands full trying to raise us right. I would say she did a good job, but it might still be too soon to tell. At this young age, our backyard with all it’s dirt and no grass froze completely over. This was the magic. Behind this little green house with a white fence was a natural ice skating rink. It was a dream come true for a little kid like me. Always wanting to be outside, always wanting adventure. Our mother said we could skip the homework for now and head outside to the rink behind our house. When you’re little you eat that shit up, and I like to think my fear of growing up has made me still believe in the magic of adventures. I do cry sometimes when I look out off of the tops of mountains.

Anyways, this street with this house was called Ewing Drive. The town where people said, “All roads lead to." And I believed that, until I realized every town seemed to say the same thing. Places just connect to places I guess. But in this town, all the people I love most in the world exist, existed, and so on, live. This is a town with one high school, one middle school, and four elementary schools. This is a town not too small, but everybody seems to know everybody, or know of them rather. A town where an Ikea was built, a place where I would even go on one of my first dates with a boy you’ll hear about later. A town known for a certain pizza place, a pizza place that you always find your way into when you find your way back home from wherever you might be.

And in this town are streets I’ve gotten to know very well. Streets I would run down, alone and with my teammates, the track and cross country numbers hung up inside this apartment on my walls now to prove it. Streets in the surrounding towns that lead you back to your destination. Streets where it has been so cold you question why you even signed up for this sport in the first place, and so hot that you just have to take your shirt off to even existence without passing out. The same streets I have rode my bike through at one a.m. on a cool summer night, the same old english one. Streets that I look around and thank whoever, whatever, that they exist. Streets where my friends and I would drive around at night, looking for something to do but unsuccessful in our efforts. And on those drives we would engage in conversations that I swear brought tears to my eyes, goose bumps to my pale legs, and pale arms, and hope for all of it.

My best friends live on these streets. Former friends whose houses I pass and cannot help but peek inside. The buildings seems more like mini museums now. Places where history and memories exist. Places where they feel preserved forever, engrained in the walls and the air still. I feel all of this in my heart and mind, but a glimpse of the once known reality sparks images in my head that could not be thought of before without it.

This is a town where people believe in friday night high school football games. This is a town that I know so well, every inch of it. It’s a place I call my home, because I don’t know much of anything else. When you haven’t been far, you feel more connected to the environment that raised you. People always seems to hate their hometown. So many stories, books, and songs of the sort talk about this. But I am a human who loves where I came from. I love the house, the street, the town. I don’t think you need to hate your past or growing up experience in order to live a successful life. You don’t have to hate high school to be cool later on. It’s okay to love your past, your hometown, your life that once existed in a certain way that you thought would always be. I love who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. These are all me, and it’s because of this house on this street in this town in a state in a country on a planet in this universe.