We drove away from the rental townhouse on State Street,
From the broken asphalt pieces in the driveway,
From the tree with the axe marks that
The neighbour’s kid had hacked for fun,
From the three weeping willows
Into whose leaves we jumped in autumn,
And whose trunks we used as goal posts
For our boyhood soccer games.
We drove away from the living room, where mom
Had thrown a belt through the glass door of a cabinet,
Walking out the back door with her purse and angry face,
And dad saying he wasn’t sure if she’d come back,
From the courtyard where we neighbourhood kids
Played Red Rover, slamming our bodies
Into the entwined arms of the
Weakest of us, surprised when the line held.
We drove away from the monsters in the cellar,
From the chair on which the cat had her litter,
When mom kept us home from school to watch,
And gave us notes for our teachers explaining.
We drove away from the only school I had ever attended,
From the field where I caught grasshoppers and
Praying mantises and put them into jars,
Poking breathing holes into the lids.
It was summer when we left, the grass green.
I threw the football with dad one last time in the yard.
I kicked a pop can around while mom smoked,
Knocked on the door to say goodbye to Bobby.
We drove away from my friends,
Saying we would keep in touch, but we didn’t,
That we’d visit soon, but we didn’t,
That we’d be blood brothers for life, but we weren’t.
We drove away to a bigger house, a new school,
To a middle-class lifestyle, a house where
We three kids had our own bedrooms,
To loneliness, to emptiness, to a new chapter.
It is many years later and the old townhouse still stands,
Empty now, but soon with a new tenant.
University students walk by in groups, chatting in
Foreign tongues, laughing with the joy of youth, and learning.
A woman sits on her tiny porch, smoking a cigarette
And playing with her iPhone. I want to tell her
That I lived in this neighbourhood more than fifty years ago,
But instead, I walk right by her.
Much of the neighbourhood is the same –
The houses, the street names, the yards,
But the willows are gone in the courtyard,
As is the tree with the axe marks in our old yard.
I look towards a nearby field, where I would
Pick dandelions for mom as my excuse
For being home late. I smile, head back to the car,
Say goodbye to my old neighbourhood.
Drive away. Again.