The house at the top of 16th street was a yellow Victorian, and felt like something that belonged in a Madeleine L'Engle fantasy novel, but then, I guess Colorado in the 1970's was sort of a fantasy for most people.
We seemed to have endless freedom, but it was just youthful perception, I think, and not reality, because I remember being made to read an article about a girl who was abducted, at one point, as a sort of object lesson about why I shouldn't hang around in the park after school, but come home and check in.
We used to walk to the Y, for ice skating, walk to the movies, ride our bikes to the library and spend the day there.
But then, we also used to think three different encyclopedias counted as three references, when we did reports.
Perhaps freedom is always illusory, but if so, isn't time, also?
Funny how the time flies in our youth,
But with darkness approaching, we'll all grow close
In the place we'll call heaven
But for now, we'll just call it home
Where my friends are, even when I'm not.
I wish you were here.
I'll see you– at home.*
“Home,” Deep Blue Something