Traveling down memory lane

Every street has a memory.

When you grow up in a town you remember when you wiped out on the sand patch while riding bikes over on 3rd street. You remember hiding behind the old train bridge smoking your third cigarette and finally 'doing it right'. You remember that day it rained so hard walking home from school that everything inside your bookbag got wet, too.

Memories of the streets and houses pile up and give you that feeling of your 'hometown'. You have a history with the place. It gives you an anchor and it helps define what you think of home. As you get older you still make memories of the road, but they are clouded by the ones from childhood.

I didn't grow up in this town. My memories are clear about each street. This house is where M. lived, she died of stomach cancer. If you keep going down this road and turn right, you'll be at J. house. He was momentarily distracted from his pain with back rub.

I travel each street of this town towards life and death. The houses permanent markers in my mind for each one of them.

I may forget their names, or diseases.

I won't recognize their family.

But the street will be there, and house I will remember.

I will know that I touched, literally and/or figuratively- the people who lived inside.

It's kind of a morbid trip through town these days as each month adds more streets and houses.

I don't feel haunted, or spooked or sad really.

I feel connected to the history of the town in a way. Less as a participant and more as an observer.

I'm unsure of how I feel about all this.