It starts with the simple things. The stores I pass on my drive. That shoe store with the giant watermelon in the front. It lets me know I’m close. The congested intersection right as I enter town. The traffic that citizens find tedious but I can only see it as the mark of the beauty that lies before me. The honky-tonk bar looks so different in the daylight without its neon lights and hoards of people. Gone, but not forgotten.
Finally I arrive. I’m four hours away from the place I grew up, but I’ve never felt more at home. The sunlight can hit the water tower and I just might be convinced I live in a fairy tale. Finding a parking place is only a slight hitch to this otherwise perfect vision. A tall brick building stands stoic. I would’ve never considered myself one to find this building to feel particularly “homey,” but sliding my ID to get into the glass double doors puts me at ease. The smell: slightly damp and honestly a bit nauseating. It’s a dead giveaway this building is old and in need of repair, but not even a crinkle of the nose can keep me from loving this home. A shoebox of a room, with walls filled with pictures. Maybe if I’m lucky I can wedge one more thing into my closet. Maybe if I’m lucky I can catch the shower when the water is hot. Gone, but never forgotten.
The fountain. It sits smack in the middle, and oddly enough it’s round, as if it took on the role as the heart. This would only be fitting seeing as how it constantly maintains a crowd of people eager to soak up the sun. The brick pathways that would utilize my clumsiness to its fullest and trip me if I tried to hurry across them. The buildings that begged for my nightly exploration. I could have sworn the architect knew of my curious intentions when he so carefully designed that flat rooftop. And oh, the football stadium. A beautiful cement colossus. Buzzing with activity on game day, and standing as an exciting reminder during my bike trips to class on weekdays. Gone, but never forgotten.
The entire city. It was my home. I often wondered who was doing the discovering. Me, or the city? It was like a scavenger hunt in those days. But the treasures came at every turn. And in fact the biggest treasure was my pleasure of having known such a dream. And it was a dream. Gone, but not forgotten.
However the real dream was the people that I met. My friends. They alone are what made it home. The first introductions: nervous and hesitant. A few months later we may have had others convinced we’d spent our whole lives together. It was a closeness that this place allowed me. The memories. The endless late nights, with endless laughs, and what seemed like endless schoolwork we never wanted to do. Adventures were often and the new and exciting was always lurking around the corner, waiting on us. I changed a lot, and the people around me caused it. I loved deeper, and lived fuller than I had before. I basked in the love of the people that surrounded me. Gone, but never forgotten.
The goodbye. The tears. The heartbreak that one might try and associate with a relationship, but it felt so much stronger. It was a breakup with a lifestyle. It was a breakup with my home, and with my friends. It was a breakup from my fantasy. The scramble to get back at all costs. Useless. I became hollow. Hardened. A dark time. Not me. Gone, but not forgotten.
Peace. Peace at last. The fears of life moving on without me, and the realization that life will move on with out me. I accepted that. The visits that I knew would be sparse, but better than ever; the goodbyes so bittersweet. And on my birthday I can get a text or a Facebook notification from an old friend. It might be a picture, or a memory we shared. I smile. Gone, but not forgotten.
