Tours of Places You Used to Live

Do you like to give tours of places

you used to live?

Do you take it personally

when the scenery has changed?

“There used to be a swing set over there,

that was rotten and creaked a lot,”

you might start to say,

rolling down the window

to point to a certain gathering of trees.

But I can tell you right now—

the swing set doesn’t matter

to anyone else on the tour.

And they certainly can’t be bothered

with knowing exactly

where it used to be.

Which parks

used to be bigger, which houses

were smaller,

which church had one time been painted

a bright, Easter-egg yellow,

and is now a dull gray—

None of these is important.

Neither is the fact

that you once lived down the block

from a neighborhood pool,

that first thing in the morning

you could hear kids shrieking

as they cannonballed in.

All these people on the tour can see is a fence,

and a block of concrete.

Whether the pool is closed now for good,

or just for the season,

has little bearing on them.

They are checking their phones,

wondering how long it will take to get home,

starting to worry about work the next day.

To them progress is not a personal snub.

Let’s say for example the town got a lot of money

to modernize the library.

Now it's shaped like a ship,

with all this light streaming in,

and big comfy couches instead

of those sterile little cubicles.

Someone in the group keeps saying,

“Wow” and thinks it’s impressive,

for such a small town.

You want to punch them

because they are missing the whole point.

You liked those sterile little cubicles,

and the water fountain

that never gave more than a trickle.

You liked the dark little children’s room

with a worn-out wooden dollhouse

and the animal books with

the bindings completely shot.

Most of all you miss the fairy-tale stone steps

in the back, leading down

to a field full of goldenrods

and marigolds.

Someone else points out how cool

the train playground is.

“Was that here when you were little?”

Nope. No. They are just not getting

how much you loved

that wild field,

how sometimes in early spring,

while your dad was gathering books on

tax preparation and your mom

reading Bartlett’s Quotations,

you and your sister would wander down

that impossibly long stretch

to the almost-woods where

you knew you weren’t supposed to go.

There you’d look for ladybugs

or four-leaf clovers

and other surefire signs

of good luck.

Or let’s say in the place where

the pool-hall burned down,

now is a festive Mexican restaurant,

with local artwork,

and good happy-hour deals.

You can tell the tour group all about that crazy,

smoky pool hall where, in high school,

you used to run into the local guys,

who somehow had Boston accents,

how every single night without fail

“Hotel California” played on the jukebox.

But they’re looking at a sign

for 2-for-1 Margaritas,

asking about

the vintage clothing shop next door.

As you get back into the car,

maybe you realize

that you yourself are forgetting certain things.

Of course in the obvious Borges way,

like the bike paths that were huge and perilous,

leading off into the unknown,

are now simple dirt roads,

alongside the tracks of the commuter rail

to North Station.

But even things like the fact that

your house was never green,

it was beige at first,

then painted white,

But you could have sworn—

Or something like the fruit trees

that never bore any fruit.

But what about that perfect Empire apple,

after school one day in 5th grade,

you carefully picked off a branch that seemed

to be handing it

to you?

Before you attempt to go any further,

you should probably ask yourself—

Why are you giving this tour?

Is it curiosity, nostalgia,

just a memory-lane type thing?

Is it because you really do want

someone to know how it felt to be you:

a scrawny kid with a 10-speed bike

who loved her cat (the one buried behind…

which poplar tree?),

who loved

those January nights when she would curl up

in the living room,

whose mom would bring her hot chocolate

whose dad would sing Mr. Tambourine Man?

Did you last-minute swerve to catch Exit 27 off 495

so the guy in the backseat

wearing the Yankees’ cap

and one side of his ipod headphones,

(the guy who is right now wondering

if there’s a Roy Rogers

at a rest stop anywhere between here and New York)

will understand what it felt like to be that kid?

Or is it so that you can be that kid again,

wearing pigtail braids

and too-small pajamas?

Is it so your mom will bring you hot chocolate,

and you dad will sing Mr. Tambourine Man?

Because if that’s what you’re hoping to get

out of giving these tours

of places you used to live,

it’s no wonder you feel a desolate fury

as you finally consent

to pull away from the curb

and head back to 495.

Of course you are biting your lip

as you turn your bruised, lavender face

away from the watery view.

And no wonder you have to summon

the restraint of a caged Mountain Lion

to keep your voice steady,

as you crane your neck around

to tell someone in the back seat

(whose face you barely recognize)

“No, that was music store.

The donut shop was across the street.”