We set this day aside for relaxing. It was religious. The day of football. Finally after feeling like the weight of the world was on our shoulders, we could take a breath. The family gathered here and never left. There were conversations that echoed through every inch of my grandmother’s home. My mother’s laugh filled the room followed by my father’s snoring. Today was Sunday.
712 Billings Avenue read the prominent street of my childhood. A road that was only a few feet long, but felt like miles. The homes down this road were all sandwiched together, with their minivans and trucks parked out front. Where a hot meal awaited you and the TV glowed as it reflected off the windows. Where inside awaited a family that was bound together in the pain and struggle of love. The constant sound rattling off of grown-ups tongues, “Are you kids going to ever grow up?” And, “Go outside for once and play”. As it ricocheted down my street, and into my grandparents home. Family unity was progressively established from childhood, adolescence, to adulthood through social experiences. This was the suburbs.
But there was something about that day, and moreover that yard. Sunday dinners at grandma’s house included lots of yelling that was foreign to me, to them I guess it sounded like a normal conversation. As you opened the door, the smell of garlic and tomatoes simmered on the stove right under my nose. My grandfather was hollerin’ at his TV like he was actually an NFL player in the game. At the same time, my cousins and I used to partake in the daring game of chase until our names were called for dinner. Of course, we had two separate tables, one for the adults and one for the grandkids. I always sat at the smaller table realizing that the grown-ups bigger table wasn’t so big after all. This wasn’t your average meal. Sunday dinners had four or five courses usually. First, the soup that burnt my mouth. Then, came the salad where you could taste the vinegar and oil dressing as it danced in your mouth. The meal came next which was a loaf of bread that looked about five feet long and a huge bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. Of course then came the debate on if it is called sauce or gravy from the adult table. Finally came dessert, a four layer icebox cake that missed my mouth and landed in my lap due to me shoveling the spoon to my face. Soon enough, the feeling of a loaf of bread settled into my stomach and made me not want to move from the very chair I was sitting in. But, today was Sunday.
My cousins and I played our famous game of Sunday wiffle ball after dinner. There were six of us around the same age: Mike, Sam, Anthony, Santino, Marco, and me. “Come on you slowpokes”, shouted Sam. “We can barely move from dinner!” we exclaimed. All of us split into two teams evenly and lined up at the plate. Sam was at bat, the first two pitches I was just getting warmed up. The third pitch was thrown and my cousin slammed a home run right into right field, which was grandma’s fence. My cousins and I played that day until the sun went down at dusk.
But there was something about the way the trees cascaded into a forest of adventure. Those long bicycle rides you ventured on and got lost trying to peddle your way to your “secret hideaway” that only you and a few knew about. The yearning to play the endless game of tag as you are being chased. That butterflies in your stomach feeling as you are chosen to be on the best wiffle ball team. The constant teetering among the swingset with your cousins as you laugh with every thrill high and low. The obstacle of reaching for monkey bars that were too tall to reach as they slipped from my fingertips, one by one.
Like the wiffle ball game, choices are an everyday endeavor. Exploring as a child became a process that is now just individually a sole exploration act. The swing exemplifies balance and unbalance in life. Where I swung to reach new heights. Where I listened to others stories to develop a better understanding of the world around me. Where monkey bars were always too high, but eventually I made it across, developing, at last, my own intellectual playground.
There was a rosebush that resided in my grandmother’s yard where I would go to for shade. This bush was six feet high and wrapped its arms around me. This is where I watched the world around me unfold. This rosebush had four branches. The third branch was once broken. This was the adolescent lining that connected my tree. The lining where I fell. Through my trials and tribulations that lead into my growing pains. Failures saw me through my toughest and brightest days. The leaves fell at my feet and bloomed, at last creating a beautiful tree.
Eventually, the street lights began to illuminate 712 Billings Avenue that night. Each child slowly wanders into their identical suburban homes. Family unity was progressively established from childhood, adolescence, to adulthood through social experiences. Where parked cars sat on the edge of the street and the smell of fresh brewed Maxwell House Coffee filled the homes in the morning. This was where families resided, each with individual stories about times where they laughed too hard until they cried, cried for times of pain and sorrow, and wondered what was to come.
