My sister and I visited the town we grew up in a few days ago. It was a sentimental journey mostly. We parked in front of the old homestead and proceeded to walk around the town talking of things past and things present, things remembered and things hoped for. On the anniversary of our father's death, we usually sit and reminisce individually without the other siblings. This felt good. I wished the brothers had been there. But such is life.
Actually though, this isn't a post about the day, as lovely as it was. I was standing in the kitchen of my home this evening admiring the weather for a change. It wasn't too hot, nor too humid--a rarity in this state. And I was wondering about someone I know who lives in our old hometown now. He and his partner live near a friend's house that we frequented when growing up. And I wondered...did he know about the wonderful solitude of walking along the river on a night like this, skipping stones and contemplating life's mysteries? Would he sit on the wall or perhaps one of the newer benches and take in the river breeze bringing with it the strange "river" smell that accompanies this body of water? Will he stroll the small side streets, feeling the evening breeze lift the collar of his shirt (he shaves his head, so no hair to ruffle), and marvel at the quietness, the peaceful pace of the place I used to call home? I shall have to ask him sometime. I hope he does. I hope he comes to find a way of life somehow missed by the slipstream of the urban jungle. And I hope he skips a few stones and finds some peace there as well on a night just made for an evening stroll.
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