Have you ever looked out the window of your car as you drove down your street, pretending you were leaving forever as a character in some dramatic music video? The value of home is something that differs from person to person. For some, it's an address, a precise location on a shady street. For others, it's a name or a face, or a warm hug from a parent. Where you grew up and who raised you has value, no matter how you were brought up or where. A hometown is so many things, and the worth of your childhood world is never truly known until you're far away. So here's a note to hometowns everywhere. Thank you for the memories, even the weird ones.
Dear hometown,
My first memories are vague, but a smell or a sight brings them back. I remember when the park down the street got torn down, and the swing I no longer fit in was replaced after I outgrew it. I remember running around the house shaking a bag of vanilla and milk and ice, desperately attempted homemade ice cream. I remember racing my bike down the hill with my brothers, and the countless scrapes, cuts and bruises from roughhousing on the street. I remember the taste of asphalt and the sting of skin being broken by dirt or rocks. I remember when my dad put up the swing set in the backyard and I remember the day it came down. I remember trips to the local Dairy Queen, and post-sports game meals at pizza joints or hot dog places, surrounded by teammates. I remember camping chairs in grassy fields early mornings, and wearing long sleeve shirts under jerseys. I remember the first time I went to the mall by myself. I remember wandering around the outdoor mall after a movie, waiting for my friend's mom to pick us up. The best times of the year were the local festivals and carnivals in the fall and summer. Everyone who was anyone went to the fireworks show, and kids chased each other with sparklers and adults laughed over their drinks. I remember memorizing the addresses of my friends, and driving all over creation after we all received our licenses. I remember driving just to drive, weaving in and out of subdivisions, sharing secret spots and amazing playlists. I remember wishing for an escape, hating the suffocating fishbowl that was the suburbs. I remember dreading nostalgia, sneering at anyone who cried when they left for school. I remember watching my high school, my favorite restaurants, and parks I used to play at fly by as I left town for college. I remember wishing for that Dairy Queen blizzard and those cold, dewy mornings on the soccer field back. I remember regretting not enjoying these things more and I remember hating myself for being so above the place that raised me with care. I remember a few months later, returning back home and everything feeling different, distant and fake somehow. I remember feeling like an actor on a television show about my life. The set looked the same, but the colors didn't pop as much as the real thing and the characters were disingenuous. However, I soon grow to realize that I had changed, and my hometown had not. In a bittersweet moment, I realized my hometown had given me everything I had needed as a kid, and now I had to find somewhere else to call home.
