You sat passenger

while we traveled backward through time,

passing places I only recalled

in memories old enough to drive.

We jerked forward

with each hesitant press of the brakes

accompanied by a hasty summary

of some half-remembered story

that resurfaced for a second

and faded in the next.

A park where

my dad and I

shot free throws and played catch.

A remodeled school where

I learned about the human body

and what it means to be a friend.

A trampoline

we used to jump on

even in winter

with snow in our boots

and icicles dripping from our noses.

A house now-unfamiliar

that used to hold our family together

with a swingset down the hill

instead of my brother’s Camaro,

with an empty space in the backyard

instead of the sagging weeping willow.

A song was on the radio,

one I never heard,

but the aching guitars and slow-thumping drums

intertwined in my veins

and the well of tears

I barely choked back

sloshed beneath my eyelids

with each raspy wail.

I looked to you,

and whispered,

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

You held my hand,

and replied,

“I know you can,”

and wiped a stray teardrop from my cheek.

The song faded and changed,

and the sights became unfamiliar.

The gas station where

we always bought slushies

and drank them too fast

was torn down and rebuilt.

The local grocery store where

we browsed for tonight’s dinner

fifteen years ago

was replaced by a larger chain.

The neighborhood where

we knew everyone from corner to corner

and friends were a frisbee throw away

had strange houses

and stranger tenants.

The place I once called home

was different.

I looked in the visor mirror

at my mustache and beard,

at the dress shirt I now wore in large

and the tie I never thought I’d buy.

So was I.