Redbuds

This is the street I grew up on. It's about five blocks from where I live now. Aja and Eden stand under the spectacular branches of three Western Redbuds (Cercis Occidentalis) that marked the years when I lived with them. Buds beneath the buds. Folks used to come from all over to gawk at those trees. I bet they still do. It is strange indeed to be living in this neighborhood some 30 years later. So little has changed. All the trees are taller, thicker. Yard shrubs have become imposing in places. The houses mostly look the same. Paint faded some, flaking at the edges. A bit shabbier but just a bit. Eerie, too, to see my own kid standing on ground where I once roller skated, hopscotched and stretched out in a wet swimsuit on hot summer days eating graham crackers. I can even see my own ghost sitting on that lawn curb just beyond, scratching out doodles in chalk on my front sidewalk. My kids and me-as-a-kid in the same place, just at different times. Weird. I tell my girls stories from my growing up so this place is peopled for them. Mr. Wood with his goo-goo goggles, Joe and Trudy and the jar of candy bars, the Man With No Face, Ernie "Monsta" with his spastic foot, Shaleen and the Chateau Mousseau. They know about the Swing Low Sweet Chariot Lady and how we extracted fudgcicles from Opal and Earl by skating incessantly and noisily in front of their house. The past is alive for them but did I have any inkling back then that a future me was walking by with my family? Maybe I was too distracted with water balloon battles or playing "The Fifty's" with Tammy's portable phonograph and collection of 45s. But there were quieter moments I seem to recall, sleeping out on Jenny's front porch, sunbathing smeared with stinky baby oil or just counting stars when those kind of thoughts may have crossed my mind. Some think all time happens simultaneously so maybe I can still catch my attention when I'm passing through.
Photo by Robbi