The hoot of an owl echoes in the brisk midnight air. Coyotes howl at each other across the valley. It’s dark except for those late at work. The soft snore of people sleeping soundly, and the bugs’ lullaby fills the sound. The lampposts illuminate the sprawling, uneven roads and if you’re lucky you’ll see the stars through the pines. Maybe a late night walker is taking a stroll with a dog or the partiers are coming back from a night out.
As the sun rises over the ridge, the dogs bark as if they are roosters waking up their farm. The cars leave for their daily commute, barreling past the infamous stop sign. The sun sneaks between the cracks in the blinds acting as nature’s alarm clock. Mountain bikers start flooding through the streets, racing to the trailhead. Dog walkers climb to the waterfall which blooms like a flower in winter, but dry as a dessert in the summer. The beauty changes by season.
The sky opens in the morning to reveal a blue beauty and the evergreens sway with the breath of mother nature. The windchimes catch a breeze and the bells are a wake up call. This is the magical place I’ve grown up in, the place where my childhood is stored. But soon I will have to leave as I leave for the next chapter of my life.
The station 105.3 plays on my alarm clock and is muted with the snooze button. This radio station used to play alternative rock, but then it changed to the Dave FM channel. Eventually it changed back to alternative, but it was never the same.
I’ve woken up to a few good songs like “California” by Phantom Planet. It’s the theme song to the 2000’s tv show, The OC, my favorite. That day was a good day. I told myself that when I miss home in college I would listen to this song. Not only does it remind me of the bittersweet feelings of watching the show, but also “driving down the 101,” as stated in one of the lyrics.
For me, the 101 is home, it’s local and always bustling with cars. It signals that I am in California, but the San Rafael exit is the true home. But what happens when the freeway turns into Interstate 78 and suddenly there is no home to be found? I’m switching coasts this fall, to the west to the east.
College is scary, everyone always says, and I agree. But I wonder about breaks when I come home from college, how will they feel? And how will my house feel different, will my brother still yell my name just to find a silent answer? Will the streets I’m so familiar with feel any different as time passes? The streets I’ve roamed my whole life will now be a vacation spot, a rarity to see.
I’m scared to never experience life as a kid living in this ravine. I already experienced the last time in which I yelled across backyards to random kids screaming. I’ve accepted that. What about nightly walks and summer pool dunks? They’ll happen again of course, but perhaps with a different feel. My walks soon will be surrounded by the towering skyscrapers and the melody of sirens. A much different feel of course, but it may become the new normal. I know I will have to say goodbye eventually to move to a home away from home.
I often imagine myself at my college riding the hot and sticky subway into the city or strolling through the park admiring the beautiful skyline. I picture an independent life, one where I sit on the lush grass laughing with friends in the courtyard or studying in the pindrop silent library. I can picture it becoming a home, a place where I know the quickest routes or the exact times of the bus. But, this home is different. It doesn’t hold memories yet, it’s still young and fresh. The one I have now is old and tired. It is full of aged sweets and bitters, like a colorful candy jar slowly collecting dust.
I’m a child here in the canyon that I grew up in. I play marco polo with my brother and chase my brother when he has my phone. I play board games in the summer and do silly tricks in the pool. Although, technically I am an adult and in a way have moved on from my childhood, living here keeps me young and playful. When I leave this magical home, I predict I will still claim my childish features, but not as before. I won’t be one door away from my brother, instead hundreds of miles away.
The childish habits like peering under the large front window shades looking out for Sol Food delivery or a family member’s arrival might disappear. My brother and I loved to wait eagerly for the surprise; it made things feel so much longer, but it brought joy. I sometimes still find myself swaying outside on the sidewalk waiting for a long-distance relative to arrive or a friend to pull up. These habits are small, but they hold much value. And when they disappear you feel like an uncomfortable stranger to your own past trying to get them back.
When I leave for college, this will turn into picking up Doordash on the street, the adult way to pick up food. The child in me who is eager to stay young in tradition will have to move on. It’s a hard battle, wanting so much to try something new, yet unsure whether the old will ever be the same.
I already know what my neighborhood will look like when I come back from SFO in my mom’s blueberry Volvo, but I don’t know what my heart will see. The sprawling streets and infamous red stop sign no one stops at will be the same. The houses in their same blueprint and the mailboxes still slanted. The people are still walking and the dogs are still barking. I might feel like an outsider even though I know the roadmap like the back of my hand. My memories skateboarding on the gravel asphalt and dressing up for Halloween parties will still be there, but they may be distant. They might be moved into a old category. The childhood one, the pre-college life.
I will never fully have left my home, it will always remain an unremovable piece of me. The experiences will be watched through ghosts and the screen in my mind. When I now visit my home, I don’t know exactly what things will look or feel like, but I know I’ve said a partial goodbye to make way for a new home.
