chesterton
A visit back to one's old neighborhood may not always be a sentimental journey, and not necessarily with nostalgic intentions. The sky was drizzling a misty curtain of rain, yet with no attempt of adding any miraculous element to the situation, the rain stopped eventually after I arrived at Angler's Way. The owners of the house, God knows how many families have moved in and moved out, obviously preferred the immaculate white (bad taste I must say), for the door was once green. The tiny garage was still there, but paint was peeling off its door; The garden was green as usual, no flower beds however. I felt like a complete stranger intruding on private grounds, and the sign which read "This is a neighbourhood watch area" warned me to leave as soon as possible. With only vague clues of anything that should appear familiar, it was that smell, that particular friendly smell of our dark wooden fence which somehow brought back memories of a happy childhood. Sights do not tell you everything.
I don't know if it's because when you are young and tiny, the world that revolved around you seemed so big--now the house, door, front yard, and the slide looked relatively small. There was a time when you thought finishing a Big Mac was completely impossible. The time was static and simple, and long walks along river Cam could take forever. Or, could it really take forever?