Strange to return to a place where you once lived and only saw it from the height of a ten year old. Going back, everything changed, largely unrecognisable.
The street was an avenue. To call it that a bit of show off. Rather stuck up for a dirt, rutted road, dust raised by wheels caked the winter sun. The name oozed Englishness. (Nothing indigenous here.) Sun-dried childhood, drenched in endless play: we roamed in packs, up and down to the outer limits of our galaxy. Look at me, no handle bars! Boundaries, yet we were boundless. The puddles, the potholes, the empty spaces: the eye could see into the blue-wide-forever, into the untamed. On a recent visit, the surprise of an intimacy lost. This street had grown up, tree-lined, neatly curbed (and the ubiquitous barbed wire, electric fences). The house, lost in the forest my father planted a lifetime ago. Only the driveway glanced back. Granny smoked a Matinee and Morris Oxfords were the kings of the road. The avenue had simply disappeared: the yellowing veld of memory lost in manicured lawns. The sky had fallen to the earth.
This piece started life as a short piece of prose.
© 2021 Copyright Rick Frame