Memories

I grew up in the South. I was usually isolated from neighbors and friends. One particular place cannot describe my home. We moved all over Arkansas and sometimes went back to the same places multiple times. My parent's divorced during my early childhood. Both parents were either drug addicts or alcoholics. They found their comfort in those idols or in other people.

My siblings and I were the ones to suffer from their actions. Once we would settle in one place and get comfortable, we were uprooted and gone to the next. This began to be routine and expected. Nothing surprised us along the way. We would roll with the punches, and lived the best life we could with what we had.

Places and homes had no value to me. The most treasured things that I held and still hold close to my heart are memories.

Library books were my favorite. I would make a weekly trip to the library with my mother. Each week I would borrow several new books, but there was one book that I renewed each week. I renewed this book so much that the librarian eventually gifted the book to me. Those books were home to me as I could escape my reality with each new adventure.

Trips to Mamaw's house were always treasured. The trinkets she kept on her shelves captured my attention each and every visit. I had looked them over so much that I had memorized their placements. I would thumb through old pictures, and watch in amazement as she would hand sew quilts on wooden sawhorses.

Snow was not an all too familiar thing to experience in South Arkansas, but ice storms were somewhat more common. To us, it didn't matter that the electricity was out, or the water wasn't working. The bright and glorious white ice that shimmered on every outdoor surface sent us into a trance. We played for hours regardless how red our noses were.

We rode bikes through the gravel pits behind one of the many houses that we paused in. The dips and peaks served as great hideouts for our endless games of cops and robbers.

Sparkling water by the lake on a hot summer day, those were the best. Climbing the tree that jutted over the lake and plunging into the cool water courtesy of the old ski rope that served as our swing. It wasn't the prettiest body of water, but it still captured our laughter and soothed our sun kissed skin.

I can still feel the heat of the sun beaming down on my cousin and I as we would walk the railroad tracks for miles. We knew it was against the rules, but what our parents did not know at the time would not hurt us.

We would make our way to the freshwater wells that were crystal clear and always cold. The combination of the heat and the walk only made the well beckon us more.

There were other days that the dust from the four-wheeler would trail behind as we powered down the dry and dusty roads. Miles and miles of trails lie through the woods for us to explore until the crickets called us home.

Rainy days brought muddy water ditches. Those ditches brought forth the crawfish. I'd like to say that I tried to catch them, but I was much too afraid of getting pinched. However, it was fun stomping through the muddy water with our mud boots and swim suits.

Trampolines, baby oil tans, front yard campouts, wild blackberries, 90's boy bands, Boone's Farm, bonfires, spin the bottle, first kisses, first heartbreaks, mud riding, sleepovers, and many more.

Home isn't a place for me. Home is all of the places I've been, and the memories I've made. Home is the forever friendships that have stood the test of time and distance.

For my gypsy soul, I may never find a place to call my home, but I will forever carry those treasured people and moments in the home of my heart.