These things of the past

If I had been alone, I would have tried to make a call. 
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I imagined that if I were to pick up the receiver, I'd be transported back somewhere. Almost like the wardrobe and Narnia. 

But I'd go back to Romnay Road, to the yellow and brick Cape Cod house with the swing on the tree in the front lawn.
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To dark, quiet nights and the sounds of cicadas. To when you just lay in bed listening because there was nothing else to do.
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If I could stay up to see the headlights of their car, streaming through my sheer curtain, that would make me happy. Because I knew that after the babysitter had left, I could go downstairs. 

You see, they weren't those kind parents who got mad. They just weren't like other adults; even though they smelled like other adults-- like garlic and cigarette smoke. 
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My parents were the ones with the fresh faces, and smiles that were happy-feeling; because when I think about them, that young and that way, I know they were what beautiful people are.
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And they still are, but in a different, faded way reminding me you can't go back. 
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It's weird how seeing something like an old phone booth can make you remember what's sad and lovely all at the same time.

 

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