On Returning To The Town Of My Childhood.

Returning to the town where I
grew up we sat in reminiscing silence.
As the car passed the place where I
first felt the enomirty of failure I pictured
my mothers face when she stared at
the piece of paper that decided my future.
Broken again he eyes said it all. silence
is the worse source of dissapointment.
I had delayed that moment by stopping
at the park sobbing privately under a
burnt oak tree. Its gone now replaced
with a nothing. A little further on I hoped
to stop at the old sweet shop and pat
that scruffy old dog, expecting more
peeled paint and higher hedges. Bright
lights and burning red words sought me
out instead. W.F.C ' western Fried chicken
pizza, indian, kebabs. Chefs special-
chicken burger and chips plus drink £1.99.
Not wishing to stop we hurried to the house
of my birth, first kiss, and a thousand other
memories. I had told my partner of the tree
that stood directly in front of the house which
I once climbed up drunk but successful, sliding
through a half open window into my bed.
New windows, white plastic not rotting brown.
Fresh plants stood where the tree once was
A young girl holding a green watering can
poured water into the soil. A young mother
patted her swelling belly. I decided it was
time to go home. leave this street of strangers,
this town of disappearing memories and
return to my own. In time to start the weekends
decorating, changing colours and removing
the old shed the previous owners had left behind.

by Not Long Left

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