Memory lane is a curious place. It’s lined with rows and rows of little houses. Each tells a different story. Each keeps a different time. Each sings a different melody.
There’s one house painted yellow. Its glass shines bright in the sun, and through the windows passersby can see sky blue walls and antique mirrors reflecting the smiles of the little ones laughing in the front yard. A cheerful song dances out from the upstairs study, and we know Father had a good day at work. Mother finishes assisting him with important papers, then comes to play with her children. The sun has still not set.
But there’s another house with peeling paint. The ramshackle structure barely holds up the roof, and the windows have been shattered by baseballs. Cobwebs are stretched across corners, and mice have chewed holes in the walls. A musty smell permeates from the kitchen stove, where twelve snicker-doodle cookies were long forgotten. It’s a dead house. Nobody loves it anymore. They would rather forget.
Further down the lane, closer to the present lodgings, a dark blue house stands alone. Most of its inhabitants have moved away, but some remain, dusting the floors and trying hard to keep the stink bugs out. I approach, but they shoo me back to the road. One cannot revisit this house. Its doors and windows are shut to the outside world. Somehow, it still tells a story. Somehow, I know I’ll be back to try again.
The last house on the lane is half-built. It hasn’t yet been painted, but they’re making a sun room just for writing poetry. There’s a big library on the second floor, already filled with books from kind wanderers who happened to stumble through. It’s a simple house, yet it draws the spectator in and leaves them begging for an encore of whatever sensation it shared.
Up ahead, I see peaceful mountains. There’s a light winking at me from the topmost peak. That’s where I’m heading.
Memory lane is a beautiful place.