I stand in the middle of the long forgotten cul-de-sac hidden behind the towering oaks and pines and tons of other trees that I don’t know the names of. I have vague memories of my grandfather teaching me to drive, taking the dog for walks with my grandmother, riding my bike, all in this simple cul-de-sac. It’s strange how a meaningless piece of asphalt can become such an inspirational factor in a person’s life.

I look up the long driveway at the top of the blind alley. It’s not paved; it’s more of a trail of rocks, a pathway instead of a driveway. That’s how everything is here. It’s as if when you step into the area, you travel back in time 100 years. Everything is so vintage and classic like a pocket of land stopped from traveling to the twenty-first century, but it’s nice. It’s calm; relaxing even.

With feet like lead, I travel slowly up the driveway, passing by the rock I painted ages ago. The old ugly thing, with its faded rainbow stripes and bird-soil stains, survived all this time. The house is far away from the road, like a private resort in the mountains. The familiar green wire fence greets me as I near the garage. It circles the yard, enclosing the pool, garden, and patio. The yard used to be a thing of beauty, but time has been bad to it. What once was sparkling blue water in a perfectly cut pool was now a murky dark puddle on the bottom of a broken basin. Trees cover the surrounding area, making it hard to see even ten feet into the woods. A light mist has engulfed the property, like it has much of the world these days. The excessive woods around me add certain darkness to the mist. I decide to go inside.

I could go through the side door, but it would be locked and the hopes of finding the key after forty years of being lost to the world are slim. I slowly lift the bottom of the garage door. It ascends with a low groaning noise. A cloud of dust rises out as the door lifts fully. I look around the small garage, seeing the old canoe on the wall, the crate of the old dog; he’s been gone for a long time. I open the screen door with ease, but the wood door leading to the kitchen is stuck. The rusty bells hanging on the back of the door jingle and clink as I shake the knob. With some force, it finally pushes inwards. My hand slips and I fall flat on my face in the kitchen.

I lay on the floor for quite a while before pushing myself up on my elbows. The floor pattern is the first I see. Octagonal patches of white matched by tan diamonds. I suddenly start to sob as visions hit me of a four year old version of me and my seven year old brother jump across the floor interpreting the pattern as marshmallows and crackers, such imaginations all gone to waste. After a few minutes I stand. I wipe the tears away and move into the family room.

The wooden floorboards creek under me as I sit on the flat, sagging couch and memories of a time long ago comes back to me. I see a small Christmas tree, wrapped in tinsel and popcorn strings. Classic Christmas songs are playing soft melodies in the background, and soft, home-made stocking hang above the stone fireplace. The flames lick the stones and bricks around them, charring the already blackened fireplace. The warm glow radiates through the room, warming the outside and calming the inside. I see the ghost of my family watching as I open a large box on the floor. The newspaper wrapping falls aside and a grin appears on my face.

Once again, I collapse and cry into the dust covered floor knowing that I’m all alone, knowing that it’s completely my fault. I lay there for God knows how long, and I cry, and I cry, and I cry.