"Look at this photograph
Every time I do it makes me laugh....

Every memory of looking out the back door
I had the photo album spread out on my bedroom floor
It’s hard to say
It’s time to say it
Goodbye, Goodbye
Every memory of walking out the front door
I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for
 
It's hard to say
It’s time to say it
Goodbye, Goodbye"

I have been listening to this song over and over for the last few days, trying to figure out why I haven't been able to get it out of my head... how images of my past keep coming to mind as the music plays... old friends and special places ... memories set aside and left behind, all but forgotten, but somehow now coming to mind.... bringing back images of walking on a stretch of pebbled beach at Larabee State Park, dark grey clouds on the horizon, the tangy smell of salt in the air, the cold biting my nose and fingers as I huddled in a warm, flannel lined, black denim car coat, handmade by my mother.  That was my favorite place, where you could hear the sound of the waves rolling in with a muffled SHOOOOSH to lick the round stones of the shore.  The wind lifting my hair, blowing it about my face, kissing my eyes and  cheeks with salt and bringing the mournful sound of seagulls crying from the trees above.  I went to Larabee often, especially in the fall... but always alone.  I would sometimes take textbooks and sit out on the boulders looking out into the Pacific which seemed to stretch forever; chin in hand, the open book forgotten on my lap, I would sit dreaming... red, gold, and purple starfish blinking in the wake of the seafoam below.

There is a trail leading up a cliff to a sheer drop back down to shore and I remember standing there many times, the fingers of my left hand loosely circling the slim trunk of a sapling... looking... looking down at the families below, the children running along the tidepools, couples holding hands... myself alone at the top of the cliff looking down, looking down... wondering what it would be like to just let go and fall.... "This is where I grew up...."

There is a small bridge that goes over the Fishtrap where it wends its way along the edge of the city... where 8th street ends and begins again... where, on my 15th birthday I got my first real kiss from my first real love... a boy I'd had a crush on since the age of ten.  It was early evening, the darkness had just settled in and we were talking (what were we talking about?) he had just picked some daffodils and apple blossoms from the trees and handed them to me with a shy smile before rooting his eyes firmly back onto the ground. We were standing against the railing, looking out into the darkness, the trees enveloping us, the earthy smells and the sounds of the creek bubbling and burbling over the rock strewn creekbed below, the warmth of his shoulder against mine... I turned my head to look at him and found that he had done the same and our lips met... clumsy, but magical,... I will always remember it. There is an age stained diary in a box at the top shelf of the bedroom closet; between the yellowed pages where I wrote my most secret dreams and fears, shut in by a flimsy, broken, heart-shaped lock, lie the flat, tattered remnants of those flowers... like that memory, faded, but sweet. "It’s hard to say ... It’s time to say it...Goodbye, Goodbye...."

So many memories, good and bad... bittersweet and funny... I run through them in my mind... wondering and remembering... the small town life that I lived... knowing now what I didn't know and appreciate then... that it wasn't boring, it wasn't empty, it wasn't dead... it was alive and full and dramatic and real.... I cherish it, and I am grateful that I've had the childhood that I have had.  I go back now and so much has changed... so much is different, the faces that I see on the streets now are unfamiliar, places that used to be open countryside where people would fly kites on the weekends are now dotted with new look-a-like homes.  There are not as many trees... not as many farms.... the old silo on Hannegan road must have blown down sometime in the last few years... the white cap is missing and the tin tiles along the side flap in the wind blowing across the empty field.... so many things that I remember, family gatherings...friends loved and lost.  Small comfort, the Nooksack river still looks as muddy as it ever has, it can be seen while driving over the bridge, past the field where my little brother and I picked blackberries in the summer, towards the blue and white house that says that I've come home again.  Cottonwood seed still falls from the great trees that line the creek running behind the house and drift lazily in the wind.

Crisp fall air in the Pacific Northwest  brings me back to Whatcom Community College, a backback full of books weighing me down, fresh, idealistic, and painfully naieve as I start my journey to adulthood... the sweet smell of honeysuckle and the buzzing drone of bees brings me back to the front porch of my parents home, and I am sitting on the glider, my head bent over a sketchbook, my fingers covered in charcoal dust, my brown legs dappled with sunlight filtering through my father's fuchsia plants and the honeysuckle vines... the smell of fresh strawberries and the earthy smell of dirt bring me back to my Tia Lala's strawberry stand, and I am eleven and my hands are stained red from transferring strawberries from the flats to the small plastic baskets that we sell alongside the road, tinny country music playing from the radio on the counter, a sweet taste mingles with gritty dirt as I spend the afternoon sitting on the wobbly bar stool, swinging my feet and eating unwashed strawberries.... feeling bound or restricted, the smell of irish spring soap, a blanket over my face brings back the unwanted hands and caresses, touching me, scaring me, my mouth frozen is kissed and plundered and I am frightened and feel so alone, but something inside is angry, stays angry, and my nine year old self gets up and leaves the couch in the dark quiet house where my innocence was stolen and curls into my father's recliner, the smell of diesel and the VO5 thta he uses to smooth his hair wafts up to comfort me and I take the afghan from the back of it and note the smell of my mother's perfume and this becomes my safe place, where I sleep every night until the houseguests leave and from then on it is the place that I run to when I need comfort, peace and solace for those things that I cannot voice,... my safe place...

I found myself fighting tears listening to this song today... then I realized why my mind is replaying this song over and over, and I let them fall... it is time to let it all go, to cherish the good, set aside the bad, to remember, to forgive, to say thank you... it's hard to say it, time to say it... Good bye... good bye to the loneliness, the hurt, the scared little girl and remember the good things that came after... the faces that play like photographs in my mind will bring the bad memories to me... but will not bring me back to those memories. This is where I grew up... what's past is done... and I know that I am strong and I am who I am because of that past... it's time to leave it behind and look to who I am meant to become... I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for....

"I miss that town
I miss their faces
You can’t erase
You can’t replace it
I miss it now
I can’t believe it
So hard to stay
Too hard to leave it
If I could relive those days
I know the one thing that would never change....

Every memory of looking out the back door
I had the photo album spread out on my bedroom floor
It’s hard to say
It’s time to say it
Goodbye, Goodbye
Every memory of walking out the front door
I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for
 
It's hard to say
It’s time to say it
Goodbye, Goodbye
 
Look at this photograph
Every time I do it makes me laugh
Every time I do it makes me...."

~ C