The Sincerely Letters

Dearest friend,

Something eerie happens when you return to places that once held meaning. 

Do you know what I mean?

Not just any old place. I’m talking about the place you can see with your eyes closed. The place that your mind so effortlessly teleports you to no matter the number of years that have passed since last visiting. 

For me, that feeling of nostalgia reminds me of the curvy, 2-mile parkway that led to the front step of my childhood home, just beyond the watermill and the old pool. Even now, I can still hear the sound the tires would make when driving over the bumpy stone parts of the street. 

The memories of my place are as engrained in my memory as the quiet pattering of pointe shoes on the studio floor or the smell of our condo in Boone just after the last flame in the fireplace disappeared for the night. 

You don’t even have to try to remember how to get to your special place because you know the route by heart. And you don’t have to remember how it makes you feel or why it’s so intimately woven into your mind because, well – it just is.

I swear, I could get in the car blindfolded and once crossing the threshold of my special place, a force greater than myself would come over me – an intoxicating, complicated shot of nostalgia strong enough to either send me spiraling in joy or crumbling in panic. 

That’s the thing about places – the special ones at least. They become a part of us, no matter the bliss or horror they once held.

Somehow, some way, our bodies have a way of connecting us back to these places. And all at once, you’re exactly who you were all those years ago before returning today.

Returning with regret and a bucket of soap

I heard a funny story about this the other day. My friend and I were talking about our memories of riding the school bus. Both of us were bus riders all our lives. Well, I was until about freshman year when my dad started driving me because the bus came too damn early. (Of course, the news of this came to my older sisters’ disdain. Perks of being the youngest child, am I right?). My friend shared that he had the same bus driver all the way from kindergarten through 12th grade. 

One day in elementary school, he covertly wrote his brother’s name along with his brother’s current crush on the back of the bus seat, enclosed with a heart in permanent ink. Little did he know, good ol’ Mr. B, the bus driver, saw him do it. When his mom was promptly told of the sneaky prank, my friend was presented with a whooping and a bucket of soapy water to scrub his juvenile vandalism off Mr. B’s bus seat. 

As a long-term punishment of guilt, my friend got to look at that little white soap stain on the back of the seat for the remaining decade of his K-12 education. 

I didn’t ask him if scrubbing that ink and witnessing the faded leather stain year after year was a bad memory or not. But if I had to guess, it became a funny one. 

I imagine him touching that seat every time he passed it on his way out the door, a small smirk lingering because he remembers that 8-year-old boy. 

After all, he vandalized a bus seat in hopes of humiliating his older brother in a perfectly suitable 8-year-old fashion. 

This story is wholesome and innocent and cute. And I’m sure it made for a crowd-pleasing anecdote throughout the years. I can imagine the story being told and re-told amongst the other sophomore bus riders blasting Fallout Boy in one earbud while giggling at their once-mischievous friend on the ride home.

I doubt that little boy scrubbing the seat with soap would ever think he’d smile at the faded stain, reminding him of his silly decision and the natural consequences that followed. 

To be honest, after everything that’s happened, I certainly didn’t think I’d smile after returning to my place either. 

But then again, why do we return to places anyway? Either by choice or because we had no choice at all. And the truth is, I chose to return to my place, the back of my hand still stinging from all the knowing. 

Every square inch of that place could spark a memory.

The part of the yard where you’d park the lawn mower. 

The place on campus I’d sit and look at the cherry blossoms.

The stain on the ceiling where the bubbly burst. 

The hole in the wall to remind us how far we’d come. Or how far we had to go. 

We are who we were

What a beautiful risk it is – returning. 

Will we fall to our knees in regret, longing, sorrow? Will we stand boldly in the aisle of the bus, smiling with fondness? I don’t think we can ever truly anticipate how our bodies will react upon returning. But this was a risk I was willing to take. A risk I felt I needed to take to continue on this wild journey of self-growth.

So, I returned. 

I allowed my mind to travel dizzily through every space, entranced by the memories and feelings that used to live here – the girl that used to live here. The ghost of who I used to be still echoed through the corridors as my present self just stood frozen.

I wish I could say I returned just like that boy-turned-man probably did his senior year on the bus. A taller, stronger, more confident version of himself. A sweet smirk on his face when he touched that little stain for the last time.

But if I’m honest, returning made me sad. I can’t pinpoint exactly why. Perhaps because of the anxious attachment style I’m working to change or my proneness to homesickness. Maybe it was just the nostalgia of it all and the fact that I was already emotional that day. I’m not sure. 

It’s almost as though returning to this place made me see the ghosts of what used to be, while simultaneously imagining what could have been. Just ahead, I swear I could see her. Laughing innocently, in perfectly suitable 19-year-old fashion. How badly I wished I could reach out and touch her. Just really quickly, grab her hand, and tell her how much I adore her for embracing life exactly as it was. 

I wished I could tell her how enchanting it was that she never once held back from feeling anything. She would pat the sad tears in her eyes elegantly the time she saw a duck with a broken beak at Disneyworld, and not a moment later pat the happy tears at the sound of the parade starting. 

Of course, I wasn’t able to reach out and touch this girl of nineteen. She had grown up, moved on, and changed.  

But as I sit here and write to you, dear friend . . . I’m starting to think that so much of who we are is who we were. 

Sure, the seats might get reupholstered and our outlooks might shift after a little age and a lot of therapy. But my hope is that if you return to your special place, you either greet it with the welcome your soul needs or bid it adieu in boldness. 

Because it’s not the places that make us, friend. It’s just not. It’s what happens when we leave them that do.

Sincerely,