Upon_Reflection

I turn the keys in the ignition and start driving. Originally, I had no direction, no clear intent. No particular place I was heading. But as I turn off into that all-too-familiar road, I become aware of my surroundings. As I drive down the road of my childhood, on my left is the giant electrical tower. It was intentionally built for mobile reception, though nowadays it just stands there with no purpose. Abandoned. The menacing tower stares down at me. I turn my head back to the road and keep driving. I pass Jeffery’s old house. It looks different now, unrecognisable. I pull over and step onto the pavement to observe the house. The windows have been smashed through, though there is no trace of glass fragments around. The wooden slates are old and frayed. The once beautiful garden of different shades of colours of the spectrum now bears no life. What once was a beautiful garden, admired by neighbours, is now a gravesite for what was. This house could no longer be liveable. Images start flashing in my head. It’s of us. We’re playing the game we created one long, hot summer. We called it Survivor. I start to feel a burn in my chest. My happy memories of this place are now more painful than the sombre ones. As I move more towards my old home, I begin to think of the game Jeffrey and I played when we were younger. He used to hide my dolls, and when I got closer to finding them he would shout “colder…warmer…hotter!” That’s what I feel like as I move towards this place. The hotter I get, the more it burns. I stand out the front of the house that holds all of my memories. The birthdays, the Christmases… The day my dad left. I feel an overwhelming attachment to the place of my upbringing. It feels to me like a personality trait, it is a part of who I am. I look to the tree that once held the tire swing my dad had made for Jeffery and I one summer. We played from morning until sunset, when we were called in for dinner. Now it’s bare and dead, like a tree from an old cemetery. Its branches are mostly on the ground, piled on top of each other. No leaves. I remember when we went on family vacations, the feeling of coming home. As much as we hated to see our holiday leave, there was nothing like the feeling of returning back to reality. It doesn’t feel like that now. This house is not how the same is how we left it. It looks weary. Abandoned. The roof has wooden slates missing, all of the windows have been smashed through, and the lawn is brown and lifeless. The remaining golden letters of what once had written “Twenty-two Humble Street”, now only has the letters u and e. I walk up the front steps, cautious, as if at any moment my world will come crashing down. The door to our house used to be an ivory white, with different coloured stained glass for the windows, like you see in the churches. Now, its white has turned to a disarrayed mixture of browns and greens, the stained glass with smashed its fragments on the ground. The doorknob was once a striking, polished golden, has now rusted through. I struggle with the door handle but eventually it opens. Before fully peeking inside, I close my eyes and picture my old foyer. It’s modern browns and whites, glass chandelier and a fresh bunch of flowers sitting on the display table always welcoming you home. There is nothing familiar about this house. There were no flowers welcoming me home, no extravagant chandelier providing me with light. I turn back to the front door, and get a sudden flash of the day my dad left. I was young; I had turned ten the week before. He kissed me on the top of the forehead and promised me he would return, and walked out the door. I haven’t seen him since. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror where the flowers used to be displayed. Who is this person' This was not the same little girl, this was not the same little girl who believed in fairies, and wanted to grow up to be a princess. This was a stranger, in a strange house. I can’t do this anymore. I turn back out the door and run back to my car, and sit there to gather my thoughts. I don’t want to remember this. I want to delete my past, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t. These memories are a stain on my mind that no amount of bleach will erase/ Jeffery, this house, my mum, my dad, and the tire swing. It’s part of who I am. The sense of abandonment still lives strong within me today, causing me to not hand myself over on a silver platter. Not to trust. Because, one day, it can all be taken away from you in the blink of an eye. Gabby Franks