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RSSA Kickball
I went to visit my Uncle and Aunt on their farm in Maine. Despite hitting the road at 8 AM and spending 6 hours round trip in the car, the trip felt rushed.
When I was a kid, my cousins and I spent hours and hours playing hide and seek in the hay lofts and running around the fields mooing at the cows. When I was young, it was a place for imagination and adventure.
This year, while looking at the empty space where a gate once stood to keep in cows and horses that were long gone, I was overcome with the feeling that I didn’t belong there anymore. It wasn’t that I didn’t think that I belong with the people there anymore: I fit in with them just fine. It was the place that seemed to reject me.
The farm held too many young ghosts running around those overgrown fields and swinging on those non-existent gates to make me feel like I belonged there. It was almost like touring a grade school, where the textured surface of a kickball elicits not only fond memories, but the sense that youth is lost.
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