Cambridge Drive

Cambridge Drive wasn’t just an address. It was a whole world, a little piece of my past that still tugs at me sometimes. I remember the first day we moved in—cardboard boxes everywhere, my parents excited, me? Not so much. I was eleven and stubbornly convinced my old neighborhood was the only place worth living. But my parents kept saying, “This is a fresh start.” I didn’t want a fresh start. I wanted my best friend, my old backyard, my routine.

The house felt too quiet at first, like it hadn’t figured out how to hold our voices yet. I missed the familiar sounds of my old street—kids yelling, basketballs bouncing, dogs barking in the distance. But little by little, Cambridge Drive started weaving itself into my life. It’s where I scraped up my knees learning to ride a bike, where my dad taught me how to throw a perfect spiral in the backyard, where my mom would crank up old rock songs while cooking, completely ignoring whether she hit the right notes or not.

And then, of course, there were the harder days—the fights, the heartbreaks, the nights I sat on the front steps just staring at the streetlights, trying to figure out my place in the world. Cambridge Drive saw the best and worst of me. The time I slammed a door so hard a picture frame crashed to the floor. The night my dog ran away and I spent hours calling his name until my throat hurt. The silence after my dad left for the last time, a silence so heavy it felt like it had its own weight.

But places like that? They don’t just let go of you. Even after you move on, they hold a piece of you, like an old song you haven’t heard in years but somehow still know all the lyrics to. I went back once, just to see it again. The house looked smaller. The tree I used to climb was gone. But the memories? Still there, as vivid as ever.

Cambridge Drive wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. And no matter where I go, some part of me still belongs to that street.

I can still see the seasons changing there. Summer meant bike races with the neighborhood kids, flying down the hill like nothing could stop us. Autumn smelled like burning leaves, and my brother and I would rake up huge piles just to jump in and wreck all our hard work. Winters? Quiet. The whole world muffled under a blanket of snow. I’d sit by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, watching the flakes swirl under the streetlights. And then spring would show up, bringing the scent of fresh rain on pavement, melting away the last of the cold and filling the air with possibility.

Cambridge Drive was where I learned about real friendship—the kind that feels like family. My best friend, Jake, lived two doors down. We built forts, traded baseball cards, and spent entire afternoons arguing over which superhero was the strongest. He was the kind of friend who just got me, no explanation needed.

But people grow up. Jake moved away when we were fifteen. We swore we’d stay in touch, but you know how that goes. Life happens. Time slips away. One day, you realize you haven’t talked in years, and the friendship that felt like it would last forever is now just a memory.

Sometimes, I wonder about the people who live in our old house now. Do they hear echoes of laughter in the hallways? Do they find little traces of us—a toy car buried in the dirt, a name carved into the wood somewhere? Places hold onto things, even when we don’t realize it.

Looking back, I get it now—why my parents called it a fresh start. Cambridge Drive wasn’t just a house. It was a whole chapter of my life, shaping me in ways I didn’t understand at the time. Leaving was tough, but it taught me something important: you never really say goodbye to the places that made you who you are.