When I fell in love for the first time, it was here that it happened.
I spent the afternoon and evening with the person who taught my English class in high school. When I met her, she was in her 20s. She lived in a house with her cat. Everyone always told me I would grow up to be her. And I took that as a huge compliment. I went to her wedding, I've seen both her children within weeks of them being born. She's seen me through adjusting to high school, adjusting to my friends leaving, through a high school relationship, a stupid prom night pregnancy scare the day I had to take my first IB test at the end of senior year. She's seen me through my move to New York, and my move back home, my first break up, my friendship/studentship[?] with Jake, my loss of Jake, my master's program, and my move to Los Angeles.
There are only a few people left in my life who knew me when I was young. Who know what the above is a picture of. The farther I get from that place in my life, the more intensely I love those people who are still with me. Even though driving down Hampden to see them reminds me of at least 5 major traumatic deaths or near deaths, I know I'll keep driving it to see those people I need to see who ground me.
What happened when I drove home tonight is that I felt angry because I felt lost. I don't mean to continue to write posts like this. Usually when I have to say the same thing over and over, it's because there's something that I am, for whatever reason, unable to expel. I just kept thinking, I am so lost without you. And I arrived home to a voicemail expressing the exact same thing about the exact same person. Life is breaking us. We used to turn to Jake when that happened. Now we turn to each other.
Every day that I am a tree I grow bigger and I grow stronger and my branches get chopped off and I grow new branches. But my roots stay hidden underground. Always. My history means more to me than I could ever express. There's a reason letting go is so impossible.