Do you ever dream of someone else's memories? Do you ever think of moments that aren't yours to remember?
It's like this:
I used to travel to Brown County, Indiana for Thanksgiving most of my childhood and up until I left for college. It's a small town, but not quite small enough that everyone knows each other. It's a beautiful little town about an hour away from Indianapolis (where I was born). It's full of rich history and eccentric shops. It's a place of culture and wisdom, like it knows where you're from and why you came. It's an art colony, luring in the artists of the midwest. It's a place that I always find myself drawn to -- not for the culture and shopping, but because my mom's and dad's roots lie around this small town.
I find myself imagining things in this place. I dream of my mom and dad and their friends. I dream of what once was, before I was even around. I've never felt like this about a place before -- a place that I'm so strongly attached to simply because my mom and dad grew up there. It's odd. I feel like I'm a part of this place -- as if there is still some part of me that was left there.
I've read the love letters. I've flipped through the yearbooks. I've left my own footprints in this place, this place that I feel so strongly for, and I can feel the history swimming through my bones when I think about what was left behind.
They may not be my memories to hold onto, but for my own roots' sake, I cannot let them go. It's been a few years since I've been back to Brown Country now, and every year, I think maybe I might be able to set foot there again. But to no avail, I've not returned.
It might be a few more years before I make it back, but I will surely be there, remembering, smelling the forests and fudge shops and snowy winter nights. Roots don't leave just because you left -- they hang on, awaiting your return, and breathe a silent air of relief when you finally, finally, go home.
It's like this:
I used to travel to Brown County, Indiana for Thanksgiving most of my childhood and up until I left for college. It's a small town, but not quite small enough that everyone knows each other. It's a beautiful little town about an hour away from Indianapolis (where I was born). It's full of rich history and eccentric shops. It's a place of culture and wisdom, like it knows where you're from and why you came. It's an art colony, luring in the artists of the midwest. It's a place that I always find myself drawn to -- not for the culture and shopping, but because my mom's and dad's roots lie around this small town.
I find myself imagining things in this place. I dream of my mom and dad and their friends. I dream of what once was, before I was even around. I've never felt like this about a place before -- a place that I'm so strongly attached to simply because my mom and dad grew up there. It's odd. I feel like I'm a part of this place -- as if there is still some part of me that was left there.
I've read the love letters. I've flipped through the yearbooks. I've left my own footprints in this place, this place that I feel so strongly for, and I can feel the history swimming through my bones when I think about what was left behind.
They may not be my memories to hold onto, but for my own roots' sake, I cannot let them go. It's been a few years since I've been back to Brown Country now, and every year, I think maybe I might be able to set foot there again. But to no avail, I've not returned.
It might be a few more years before I make it back, but I will surely be there, remembering, smelling the forests and fudge shops and snowy winter nights. Roots don't leave just because you left -- they hang on, awaiting your return, and breathe a silent air of relief when you finally, finally, go home.
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