A Good Place

I don’t know what it is about this town.

Every time I visit, or just pass through,

I take a drive

Down the streets that raised me.

I remember all that I have been,

Reflect on all that I am now,

And revive all that I one day could still be.

I used to ride my bike up and down these country roads

For hours…

And hours…

And hours…

Until my calves were sore

And I couldn’t pedal another block.

But I felt that I must, because not only was I 

Six or seven miles from home,

But no matter how many times I got lost,

I always found my way back

And went out again

In search of new roads and alleys I thought I knew so well.

You know, I never 

Knew why someone put a Rolls

Royce museum here.

There is one street that greets an elementary school,

Stretches through a cozy neighborhood,

Intersects with ancient Main Street,

And continues on over the railroad tracks,

Halting in front of the house

Where a girl 

That my mind would

Never

Let

Up

Thinking about,

Used to live with her little white terrier.

The path through the park behind her house

Where we walked together one cloudy day

Is worn with stains from midnight rains,

And grass has grown over the edges,

A reminder of the days that have passed

And faded into sweet memory.

There is an old schoolhouse that still stands there

On the corner of Roth and St. James.

It was at my best friend’s house

Where I first learned what a Krabby Patty was,

Since I couldn’t watch that show at home;

Where I first heard Metallica

And Dire Straits,

 “Fly by Night”,

And maybe even Nickelback,

Where we made homemade pizza

And where I first learned to appreciate the simple life.

Is that their old sheepdog sitting in the doorway,

Looking out at my passing car?

It can’t be…

Dogs don’t live that long.

There is a cul-de-sac that protects the home

Of the first girl I ever took to dinner.

The rocking chairs still sway in the breeze

On the painted front porch of the house

Where we spent many summer nights.

I’m sure she still stops by during the holidays

And just sits there

Drinking her chai tea

And laying on that old upholstered couch in the living room

Where we first watched The Shining.

I can’t remember that movie much

Because I kept closing my eyes.

How silly I must have looked.

Oh, that’s a stop sign

I blew through, and I’m sure it

Wasn’t there before.

As I turn the corner on my way to the townhouse

Where I first got stuck in a tree,

I see my old backyard was razed

And rental houses now stand in its place.

I can’t even see the mountains anymore

With all these new apartments in the way.

The grass that my young bare feet trampled on

Is now crushed under stone and brick.

People want to come here and settle down.

And I don’t blame them.

But why do they have to move my childhood to make the room?

My, my, my…

The old buffet is now a market,

But the Chili’s still stands,

More settled into the concrete than ever.

There’s its neighbor, the fast-food joint where I worked the register

With my younger brother on long, late, school nights.

I still remember blasting White Iverson as we closed at 10:00 p.m.

And took home a sandwich or two

And, if we were lucky, a leftover milkshake.

Right down the street is the rustic restaurant

That hosted many feasts in my memory,

And the dinner before my senior Prom:

It was pouring rain by the time the check came around,

And I ran to get the umbrella from the car

In my best (and only) suit to make sure my date was dry.

I can’t remember the last time

I walked into this grocery store

As I pass it on the Pike,

But if I remember correctly,

There lay within its walls

A toy railroad with an old model locomotive

That would chug non-stop on suspended tracks

Above the dairy aisle

And extending down past the deli section.

I remember how the novelty of it

So captured my attention as a boy.

A sudden urge takes hold of me:

I slam on the brakes

And swerve into oncoming traffic

In the middle of an intersection,

Much against my better judgement

And exceeding the speed limit before I even exhaled,

Screech to a halt in the parking lot

Like some lost, overgrown, debt-ridden bat out of Hell,

And step out of the car, six years old again,

Begging my mom to let me push the cart.

Navigating the familiar smells in the aisles,

First the cereals,

Then the spices,

My head swivels from left to right

As I brave the maze of twists and turns

Toward the back corner of the store…

…

…

…

There it is, still running overhead,

The plastic tracks clicking in rhythm with its old creaky wheels.

I blink a few times to keep the tears at bay;

The price of milk doesn’t weigh on my heart anymore.

The park near my childhood home hasn’t changed in twenty years,

And neither has the blacktop that accented my elementary school,

Where I learned to “play nice” with all the other kids.

The faded Four Square greets me,

Shrunken in my absence.

It’s funny…

For all the energy I spent trying to win,

I can’t seem to remember the rules anymore.

My heart stops suddenly:

The baseball diamond is gone;

The old oak tree that loomed over the field

And provided shade on hot spring days

After running the bases during kickball

Was torn up and no more.

Now, there stands cranes and trucks

And a tall blue building, still under construction.

Funny how time slips away so fast,

And how ambition nips right at its heels.

Ah, there’s the spot

Where I was gifted the scar on my knee

From that girl’s steel-toed boot.

I wasn’t quite looking where I was going,

And her leg violently lashed out

And I didn’t move fast enough

Out of the way of the oncoming swing.

Of course I cried about it,

But only for a moment,

Because I had yet to see what was going on

On the monkey bars ahead.

I wonder if the music teacher’s room still resides

Down the main hallway from the front office,

Five doors down on the right,

And if the art room still bathes

In the mid-morning light

That seeps in from the East.

I only seem to remember the main floor,

But only until my hindsight reaches the stairs.

I haven’t stepped foot in those hallways

Since the last day of fifth grade

And I walked out the auditorium

In line next to that one girl

That lived down the street from me.

I think her name was Susannah.

I wonder how she’s doing…

Does she ever take these sorts of drives too,

Whenever she’s in town?

Does she still think about our neighborhood?

Does she still take long walks with her mother

And remember the good old times

And her favorite house to visit

On Halloween night,

Where they always had

Those coveted candy necklaces?

Or the bike trail that ran

Down next to the golf course,

That winded through the looming woods

And let out at the shore of the creek

Where the crayfish dance?

Or does she see the faded sign

As she passes by

On her way to the city

And simply keeps on driving?

... ... ...

What is it about this town

That feeds my soul

With heaping spoonfuls

Of both joy and melancholy?

Is it my youth,

Where rent inflation

And “Check Engine” lights

Didn’t haunt my dreams?

Is it my passion,

Birthed here and built here

Until I felt I was a man,

And my doubt thereafter sought to tear it down?

Is it my sense of adventure rekindled,

That grew from hopping onto old moving boxcars

And climbing up the walls of hardware stores

And breaking into my friend’s house

With Nerf guns in our hands

And surprising him

In the safety of his own bedroom?

Is it my innocence,

That came from growing up

In such a quiet little town

And, after living in the noise of the world

For so seemingly long a time

Now implores me to return

To the peace I once knew,

Away from the chaos near my borders

And constant changes of pace and fortitude

That speckle my recent days?

Or is it my regret

From leaving so quickly

When seeing the first chance out,

To make it on my own

Without knowing the good I had left behind?

Maybe it’s all of that, and something else:

There lies among those aged streets,

The bricks of the town square,

The posters on the lampposts,

The stones etched in the old cemetery,

And the strawberry ice cream from the hundred-year-old storefront

Vital parts of me,

Different strengths and weaknesses,

All sorts of stories that keep the score,

Like the limbs on my body.

To know how I came to be,

To know the answer to the question of myself

And all the nuts and bolts that shape my countenance,

The answers lie in each step through that old town,

Each family business that braves the odds,

Each high school football victory,

Each leaf that falls along the sidewalk.

And as I size it up with each drive through it,

So I size up my soul and its state of being:

If it’s well,

If it’s lively,

If its spark is still there.

I always find that no matter what has changed,

What has opened,

What has closed,

What has shrunk,

Or what has grown,

Every single time I wonder what it is about this town,

I find its spark is as warm and strong as ever.

And so am I.