They say you can never go home again. Well, I disagree.

20
years ago, something disturbing took place in our happy home
and everyone got torn apart. Although it was summer, it
seemed the sunlight refused to shine through the tall windows
facing our grassy backyard. Regardless of the heat outside,
inside was bleak and shadowy. The walls, once witness to
boisterous family dinners, barbecues, birthday parties, became
painted in grief. I tiptoed through the hallways and my
parents’ bedroom for one last time. A year after that, the
house was sold.

I had saved everything: crumpled notes passed in class, a lot

of Barbies replete with a flashy wardrobe, board games with
missing pieces. For the past 20 years, I lived in Canada, got
settled there and had a happy life, but eventually came the
time when I had to drive up the long steep road to our old
home. I parked my car outside the black iron gate and peeked
through the corner, so I could see the top of our wide front
yard where we’d spend hours doing relay races and playing
tag until our mom called us for dinner.

I somehow fought my desire to ring the doorbell, greet the

new owners and walk through the house one las*t time,
fearful that the memories would overpower me again. Filled
with fear, I stopped short at the driveway pushing away my
longing.