Sunday, March 24, 2013


everything is familiar, just how i left it.
the same people come and go by my house,
my favorite book store is still there, beckoning me to
spend money i don't have on writers i could only dream of becoming like.
in-n-out is open late,
though dad's homemade dinners are of better satisfaction when you're
a college student and starving for a homemade dish.
mom goes to work everyday and ethan goes to school.
church is still on sundays, and everyone that i know goes to the first service.
my typewriter and record player have collected some dust.
and my winter sheets still cover my bed.
the weather is warm,
and the mountains are green and not yet brown.

but as i take my evening walk, and survey everything before me,
remembering everything behind me,
knowing everything up north above me,
and imagining everything ahead of me,
i can't help but feel a twinge of change.

sure, things changed over christmas.
and things have changed since then.
but this change is a familiar change.
spring brings about memories.
and memories that, though technically recent,
are much too old to deserve any recollection.

the days are growing longer,
the afternoons warmer.
the house i swore i'd raise my kids in has a new roof.
{and an ugly new roof at that.}
eddie, my dog, is older and slower...both of which make me sad.
and some things feel so old to really feel like anything else.

i'm torn between the old things that i miss,
and the new things that i long to love.

i look around at everything familiar...a horizon traced
by green mountains who pierce the blue california sky.
and there i am, torn between old and new: a contrast of color,
a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit.

when i'm in oregon, i forget what this places tastes like.
and when i am here, i can't remember what oregon feels like.

here, i can see myself, standing on the corner of miller avenue, this time last year.
i can see that girl, and i feel sorry for her.
i can see myself, speeding on a back road towards morgan hill, windows down
and an endless play list being heard.
i can see my sunday afternoons spent in a worn out living room,
or at a restaurant by the mission.
i can remember the time when everything that is now
meant nothing. when my mind couldn't even fathom what was ahead.
before i knew that i'd live in oregon,
before i could name the people who i have come to love unconditionally,
before i declared a major,
and knew that i had a passion for the old testament.
before i knew i'd actually begin to write a book. and possibly a damn good one at that.
before i knew i'd have to learn to smile again.
and before i knew that there would be more to the story.

a girl used to live in this house,
and walk these streets,
and wander through this town.
but she's gone now,
and that's okay.
she's still here in some ways or others. coming and going.
if you would have told her she'd be on her way to romania one day, she'd laugh and call you crazy.
if you would have told her she'd move to oregon, she would have had a panic attack.
if you would have told her that one day she'd be open enough to write everything down, she'd deny you all the way.

but she is going somewhere,
and she has no directions.
but every now and again, she stops by this little old town
and she remembers what she left here,
and she takes everything in,
treasuring everything and everyone in her heart.

the end.