The residue is gone from my childhood home
THE PAST- Only a trip home (the one that put up with me for the better part of 16 years, not 9 months) can have such a dateline. This has to be said now, because this time next week "my room" could be dark blue. And that just might change everything. (How many times in my life did I long for something other than beige? How many?!)

The nutcrackers will be in a box. The medals, from every single high school track and cross country race will no longer greet me when I enter. If Demi Moore is still behind the door in her Groucho Marx moustache and glasses, she will come down. The picture of the yearbook staff lying in the driveway on a couch as our advisor "Hank" shouts from his car will go in the box with the "Mr. Cambia" sash and the Winter Park ID badge. It's all coming down. If I knew where to put it, I'm sure that would be ok.

How can that be ok? Because the residue from my childhood home is gone. Sure, there are memories that only home can conjure up, but this trip is different.

Look at the little arbor day tree that came home in a paper towel and used to be such a pain to mow around. It's now 15 feet tall. The lawn itself; a symbol of the outlet of teenage-interpreted parental oppression has changed as well. I can sweep up grass clippings without a curse, and even enjoy it. Up in my room, there used to be bunk beds. Bunk beds that converted into forts, into ships, and into the occasional "love-den". I stress occasional, because there is nothing like shooting baskets in the driveway to remind me of all the bouncing basketball time spent on the opposite sex. So much hasn't changed. I just don't have a basketball goal anymore. That goal got me through some melodramatically suburban tough times. When Alisa broke my poor freshman heart and when Cassie somehow resisted my charms, and resisted my charms, and by golly, resisted my charms, until finally she resisted my charms and I ended up at the prom with Erica. Young, beautiful, and foolish could probably describe either of us; regardless it sent me back to the driveway. College didn't stop the therapy of the basketball goal. More shots on the visits home through Karyn, and Lucy, and Kim; through Dori and Dori and Dori... You'd think I'd be a decent basketball player by now. It's tough to pull into the garage and not have a bit of that angst settle on you.

The scenery around here will always remind me of so many good times, and a few bad ones, but the residue is gone. When I sit on the bleachers and stare down at my high school track, I don't feel the pressures or the joys that I used to feel. I remember them, but they no longer hang in the air. It's a relief. Between the humidity and the residue, it tended to make coming home a bit too taxing. Finally, it'll just be the humidity.