There are places I’ll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all
Beatles, In My Life

There Are Places I’ll Remember

Hello. Good to see you. How’ve you been?

Old friends and even more familiar faces.

How’s she doing? It’s been so long.

Gossip. Rumors.

How wonderful. How sad.

Oh, how things change.
Last week, Mom called me from the outdoor antique market a few towns over. Its grove could have been magical, I had convinced myself when I was younger – a space nestled between an open field and the highway from which it hides; it’s the place where I practically grew up, spending nearly every summer weekend of my teenage years setting out cobalt glassware, exchanging crisp dollar bills and gratuitous smiles with strangers. Its aisles were a blend of times, filled with people of the present and objects of the past as strangers became your future, as these friends became something more…

As first love took root.

I grew up among these people – names that echo across time from what seems like a lifetime ago, when we were different people, when we were still exploring the world together, when now, for many years since, we’ve discovered a different world apart.

How’s she doing? What’s he up to? Did you hear about…

Looking back at how much has changed can help you see how far you’ve come and keep you moving forward; sometimes, though, going back to that summertime sweetness, when you remember everything as innocent and simple, can keep you paralyzed. It’s akin to growing up, when you move on and create your own home, only to pause as you walk down the streets of your childhood when you visit your parents’ house, only to realize how much is different now, how much you’ve changed, and how you can never go back.

It’s been too long…

See here, this was where the white wicker headboard rested against the wall of my bedroom, next to the desk that displayed the holiday Barbies and story-filled notebooks, this room where I slept and dreamed and wondered.

This is where I first saw him, looking up from my book or conversation with my parents to see a blonde-haired boy speaking charismatically to my parents’ friends a few yards away, before they introduced us, before it all began.

In this corner of our property was where the wooden play-set used to stand, my braids often getting tangled in the blue and white rope of the swings, the slides and ramp serving as our drawbridge, the platform our fortress before we got to old, before my dad let my brothers cut it to pieces, before they lay the splintering wood out on the curb for the garbage men to take away.

Here in this field was where we stood, next to my car, saying goodbye, when he placed a box in my hand, where I made a  promise to wait until I got home to open it, where I watched him in the rearview mirror as the distance grew between us while the tires rolled along the long drive, before I pulled into an empty grocery store parking lot, flipped open the box, and stared at the engraved words on a heart-shaped necklace.

Places have a way of rooting us to our past, just as time has a way of keeping us holding on when we had convinced ourselves we had once let go.

And maybe we have. Maybe memory is merely a way of proving to ourselves that what’s in the past can remain in the past, if we’re brave enough to let it go.

As for me, I’ve moved on, but I’m still holding on, and when I think it’s all but forgotten, the past rushes back to greet me with a gentle reminder that moving on is a process that maybe is never completed, but rather a work in progress. It’s the soft push, whispering that I can look back in fondness and look forward in excitement while appreciating the here and now.

It’s the constant affirmation that all is well, right here, right now, and that I don’t have to fear happiness for the heartache that had always come after it, that I don’t have to cling to this past because this has been where happiness is, this is where comfort remains.

I can get over it.

I can move on.

I can, I will, let go.

How wonderful. How bittersweet.

Oh, how these things change.

Blogger Bio

Channeling T.S. Eliot, Susan works in foreign exchange by day explores the world through words as a freelance creative writer by night. She finds truth through fiction at her personal site, SusanPogorzelski.com and reflects on her personal experiences on twenty(or)something. She loves learning about the past in order to better understand the present, believes travel can teach you as much about the world as about yourself, and is convinced that the love of a dog is a gift to be treasured. Find her on Twitter @20orsomething.