Oct 26

Hiding shoes

I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio as were my older sister and younger sister. We lived in a little white house in Marimont only a few blocks away from Betsy and Rubble and Muzzy and PapaGil…four of my most favorite people growing up, and still. I don’t remember living in Marimont. I don’t remember the suffocating Ohio heat, or any of our walks down to the corner drug store, and I don’t remember what our house looked like except for the few pictures that we have–my sister and I on the brown wooden deck, my blue dress, the water from the sprinkler spraying behind me. We moved away from Marimont when I was two–away from Betsy and Rubble and Muzzy and PapaGil, and the brown wooden deck and the sprinkler.

And though I don’t remember living there, my memories of going back and visiting are so thick with sweetness and fondness that I sometimes feel like I’m back. And I don’t want to leave.

Feeling like I’m back at their house, sitting in the sunroom, waking Besty and Rubble up as early as we could, walking down to Graters for ice cream and The Villager for trinkets, making faces at Hank in the window of his office and then going in and watching his magic tricks, listening to Edna hum when she cleaned the house.

When I was young, I hated the thought of leaving it all behind. So, while my dad packed the car and my mom gave hugs all around, I’d secret myself away and take off my shoes one at a time. Then I’d hide them somewhere where I was sure no one would find them—underneath a bed, behind boxes in a closet, under a chair. And though it never delayed our departure long, the search for them did give me a few precious minutes, that were well worth the raised eyebrows of my dad and my mom’s gentle scolding.

And now when I remember the memories of visiting Betsy and Rubble and Muzzy and PapaGil and Marimont, I still don’t want to leave.

I wish that somehow, right now in this moment, that I could hide my shoes away and stay in the memories a few precious minutes longer.

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