“We’re finally here! That’s the house I grew up in, Honey. Isn’t that something?” I had looked forward to this day for years. The moment I would show my son the house of my childhood. I stared at it longingly through the rose tinted lenses of nostalgia and felt at peace thinking of the smell of the kitchen, my dad’s workbench in the basement and the beautiful grapevines in the backyard.
“What did you need those bars for?” he asked, with a tone of skepticism. I knew he was already doubting all of the wonderful things I had told him of this joyous place.
“No, no,” I laughed, “those are new. We didn’t have those. That used to be a beautiful brick porch, overlooking the street here.”
“And, Ma…” his tone hadn’t changed, “what’s with this street? It’s so small.”
He was right about that, our minivan didn’t belong here, that was for sure, “Well, Honey, no one used to park on this street. I guess there weren’t as many cars then.”
“That fence across the driveway is a bit high, no?”
“Yeah, it is…” my son’s ability to wipe the rose tint off my lenses was draining, “but that wasn’t here either. We used to share the driveway with the neighbors. It was amazing.”
“Why did Grandma and Grandpa move if it was so amazing?”
“Because the neighborhood was changing. They said it wasn’t the same,” and as the words came out of my mouth I realized their truth, I put the car in drive, “and they were right. It’s not the same. This is not the house I grew up in. Boy oh boy do I wish I could bring you to see that!”