I looked at the map. I found the school. I didn't look for the market; I forgot. I changed the map settings and I saw the images. Real images of things I both remembered and forgot.
It's a parking lot. There used to be a small playground with a glorious little sandbox. Not as though we didn't have enough dirt, because we did. We lived int he desert and there was dirt. But there wasn't sand. And I was small. Maybe the sandbox wasn't really as large as I recall. Yet, where's the harm in a child's memory?
I moved the map, panned a bit west. I saw the cattle guard. And the church. And a concrete pad that would have been a bit larger than the now missing trailer.
In my wild imaginations, I have a car and I pull up outside the cattle guard. I'm little again. My lunch box is metal with a red plaid design and I'm terrified that my little feet will slip between the rails as though they were hooves. I draw my hand across the concrete barrier--there's one on either side of the guard--and I recall how I scooted across it every morning, scraping my lunch box. I give a sad little laugh at those days when my fears were so small and no less real.
I now look into the property and wonder if it's still a church. I see the shed is gone. The mesquite tree stands though.
I can't help but giggle as I remember the races after church to see who could stomp the most loco weed pods. I can still hear them popping.
I can see where one of the ranchers pulled up in his truck one day to introduce his new dogs. One was named Blue. I remember Blue because she had two different colored eyes. I was amazed.
I see the porch where the fellow brought a tarantula in a jar that we all hovered around after church. Some of the kids held it, but I was too wise. I watched from a distance.
Then, in my dreaming, a woman comes out and calls to me. "Can I help you?"
"My dad was the pastor here when I was young," I answer. "Is this still a church?"
She smiles but doesn't answer. She cannot because she isn't real and doesn't know the answer. But she bids me come and see. I pull the car in and feel the tears.
~~I remember, I remember/ The house where I was born~~
No, not born, but most of my memories begin here.
She leads me into the church and I laugh.
"Pretty much as I remember it, "I say. "I had to come over to practice piano and I hated it. It was so big and so lonely. And dark. I left the door open one day a bird flew in. That's the only thing I remember about piano practice.
"We would walk back through this hallway to the kids' rooms for service, Junior church. My mom taught. They numbered the chairs and chose a quiet seat prize that way. One morning, I saw the number they drew and it was my chair. I was extra good that day.
"Then for business meetings, if there were no kids to play with outside, my brother and I would go back into the trailer. And play Lava. But Jack, one of the ranchers, was smarter than we were. He came in and caught us running on the furniture and he got after us.
"Jack is a pastor now. In Nevada, I think I heard."
We go back outside and I show her where the chicken coop was. I tell her how careful I was gathering the eggs; but it was hard because I had to climb up to get out while holding the basket. I point out where the cows were gathered when my brother preached to them. I pointed the opposite direction and told her that's the way my dad and I were walking home when I was attacked by fire ants.
I share with her local stories, like the one about the rancher who was struck by lightning on mulitple occasions. I tell her of the girl who collected rattles from the snakes her dad killed. I tell her of the prison escapee who ended the days of my walking to school. I ask if there's still a prison there.
But she doesn't answer. Of course she can't answer because she isn't real and doesn't know. But she manages to enjoy my memories.
