Last week I found myself driving in the neighborhood where Mark and I moved to when we were first married. As I turned the corner and made my way around the park, memories of our first two years together flooded into me and made my chest constrict.
I forced my head to turn and look down the road to the pool and playground where Mark and I had taken our first born when he was only a year old. It seemed an instant ago that Connor had giggled and squealed as the ducks came to eat the bread we threw to them.
I remembered it was also where Mark had broken the news to me that he had been laid off. Our lives were all over this place. I hesitantly turned the corner onto our old street.
It looked different, the trees were all much taller and covered many of the homes in a new way. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see our old house. It was where we had had our most personal time together. We’d been newlyweds, no kids, no other huge life distractions. Mark had come home from work every day and we had taken our dog for a walk and made dinner together. It was here we had talked, felt and grown together.
As I drove by slowly my gut squeezed but I realized it was ok. It was obvious that life, and I, had moved on. The house was set back from the street some and seemed far away, a different lifetime. I didn’t want to go back there. But I was so happy that it had been there and we had those times together. They would always be a part of my life.
I breathed. And drove home.