We Are Moving... Ugh

Two small red bikes stopped in front of the house and swung open the perfectly placed screen door. It was a quiet Friday evening in the 1960s and the street lights flickered. They looked like that when it was time to go back home. A sweet aroma of roasted chicken wafted through the white colonial home with blue shutters while the middle-aged midwestern parents spun around startled at the intrusion. It was a colonial not unlike others. A classic architectural style characterized by a simple yet delicate rectangular shape, with a large, blue wooden front door flanked by evenly spaced windows. The second-story windows align directly with those below with white-laced curtains that could be seen peaking out. Outside was draped in wood siding and the roof was pitched with side gables. Usually, the chimney seemed welcoming. The beautiful red wheels of freedom and childhood lay sprawled under the formal living room window. Giggles and red splotchy faces race in and slide effortlessly into the country-styled kitchen.

"What time is dinner?" the girls asked cheerfully.

That's the moment, she'd say that everything changed. Her mother's blonde hair cascaded gently down her back while she walked over to her daughters. Pa stood peering out the window. You may not notice the strained look of worry in his eyes. These eyes danced and sparkled for as long as the girls were present. His work at the local paper, The Branson Beacon gave him such joy, as did his family, but not today. His effusive reaction to landing the editor of the Globe-Democrat seemed a distant memory despite it happening not 30 minutes before this conversation.

Donna ran with tear-stained cheeks to the place that no one else dared follow. A 200-year-old oak tree towered over the house and yet today it seemed hollow. Empty. Lonely.

"I am never leaving. I won't go!" her voice choked as she proclaimed, while simultaneously climbing HER tree. Her hands slowly caressed the carving of her initials, DR, thinking of all the moments spent in Branson, Missouri. HER oak, HER bike, HER home, HER life. The gentle sobbing could be faintly heard in the kitchen where she left her younger sister Janeyce and her parents stunned. "This can't be happening," Donna repeated over and over in her mind. "This can't be happening."

Donna thought agonizingly over the prospect of leaving the walls of comfort and safety for the concrete jungle. After living in the small town, surrounded by family - her grandparents lived between home and school - she could not imagine having to lock the doors, the cars, or even the bikes. She wrote feverishly in her journal that night and the twenty nights after that. Pages filled with her anxious thoughts about the frightening big city. She had often found comfort in her small town where eyes were always watching. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving all she had ever known. Michelle, her best friend knew the depths of her as their bond formed when they entered kindergarten.

"Would I make new friends? Will I ever come back to visit my old friends? Why do we have to move 6 hours away?" Her journal was her confidant and this was no exception.

"We need to move to the city for more opportunities," her father's words echoed and reverberated in her head as the moving truck held all her memories. A month of worrying and recognizing the storm within crept to an end. She wiped her salty memories aside to remember what her mother told her the night the world stopped.

"Memories never disappear. New memories are made that make the old ones fade. That's why we write them down."

Donna vowed to perpetually use her lightsaber of words to mark down and savor each memory and moment in the new dark brown leather notebook that smelled suspiciously like the attic. She knew she may never return to the only place she had ever known until this point. Home is Branson. Branson is home.