I turn off of the pavement and feel the gravel crunching and crackling beneath my tires. I haven’t been here since Mom and Dad split up. I can see the old Oak tree with the tire swing, and the thicket of trees where the creek hides behind. I round a dusty corner and bring my truck to a stop. Looking out of the passenger side window I can see the cornfield me and my sister used to run into, when the mood was out and the sky was clear. Further off into the distance, the old, abandoned farmhouse is still standing. I can feel my mind clustering up pieces of memories and putting them together; suddenly I wanted to be eight years old again.

Mom would be baking cookies and Daddy would be playing fetch with our dog. Me and Sissy would be peeking around the corner of the house, waiting for the perfect time to sneak off. When no one seemed to be watching, we’d take off. The sun would be hot and the wind would be still; I’d be able to feel the freedom on my feet as the gravel turned to grass and our feet carried us further. We would run through weeds taller than we were, and come to a stop when the old building was in front of us. I remember how magical it felt; to be so young and to have such faith in the world. I thought that the only thing worth crying over was bloody elbows and bruised knees. At that time, I could find beauty in everything, and put imagination into anything. Like the old farmhouse, me and Sissy would go there to feed horses that didn’t exist, talk to friends we didn’t have, and dance gracefully in the sunset. We had the world in our hands, and we had no idea how fast time could fly, or how easy it would be for something so wonderful to fall apart.

My flashback disappears and reality starts to dig in. It’s taken me ten years to come back to this place; ten years to retrace my memory back to the night that changed everything. The view of my childhood house is perfect, but the feeling I’m receiving is far off of the path from perfect. I remember thinking that their love was infinite. They were the reason why fairy tales seemed real, and love seemed worth it. Sure they fought, but it never lasted that long. Until that one night, when Dad came home drunk and Mom started crying. I can feel my face getting hot just thinking of it- me lying in bed at ten years old, covering my ears because Dad couldn’t control his temper. Maybe that’s why I never saw alcohol in the house, or Mom and Dad sipping wine on the back patio- Daddy had a drinking problem, and until then, I had no idea. I can remember how I gathered up the courage to walk across the hall to my sister’s room. When I entered the hallway, I could see shadows on the walls and the air seemed tense. I was so confused and scared, but I needed arms around me to make me feel better. I tried to be quiet and strong, holding back what felt like, a thousand tears clustered under my eyelids. I walked through my sister’s door and jumped into her bed so that the both of us could feel comfortable. I can still feel her arms around my neck like it was yesterday; we tried to block out the unexpected madness going on between our parents, but nothing really worked. I don’t know what caused my dad to act like that, or what made him drink when he knew that he couldn’t handle it. Whatever reason he had, it wouldn’t have been enough. My childhood fell apart that night, and my heart will never be the same again. Within those two, brutal hours of bickering, my faith had drained and the beauty I used to see in the world sort of faded.

By this time, the sun is sinking lower in the sky and my eyes are feeling heavy. That night was the last night I would ever be at home again. Mom took us girls the next morning, and three days after that I never saw my dad again. Being on this property, I can’t help but wonder if he misses us girls more than anything, or regrets the things he did that night. It’s sad; to be sitting here with everything I have ever tried to forget, rummaging throughout me all over again.

I thought that I was ready for this- I thought that returning to this place would be good for me. Like usual, I’m wrong. It dug up unsettled feelings and more resentment towards my father. Maybe as people, we just aren’t meant to look back- because we aren’t moving backward, we’re moving forward and looking up the past is just a waste of valuable time. My time here is done, and ten years ago, I guess that was the case. It was hard then, but I think it’s harder now.

I put my truck in drive as fast as possible, and drove. I drove further and further away until the cornfield was invisible, and the tire swing was tucked behind the hill. I can feel the freedom beneath my tires as the gravel turned to pavement, and in my rearview mirror, everything I was running from was finally gone. For the first time, looking back doesn’t hurt because I know that I am still moving forward.