This morning I walked through my old hometown. I walked through four miles of memories. I walked through four miles of ghosts, rising up, and looking me straight in the eye. Each ghost challenged me to see if my memory was good or not so good.
There were childhood sweethearts, stores, and restaurants, teenage hangouts, eighteen-year-old beer bars where I drank my first beer (not legal, but first beer.) In each case the ghosts were so real that I could almost reach out and touch them. In my mind I could hear their voices.
It wasn’t nostalgic, it was more wistful, the kind memory that brought smiles, then a gentle chuckle and finally a tear. When you remember the places of your childhood, when you return to the land of your youth, what ghosts do you meet on the streets of your past? Write a story about your hometown, or the place where you grew up. When you walk through your miles of memories, what do you see?