I had an errand in Provo this morning and I drove past my parents’ old home, the usual routine. I knew the house was going on the market, but I saw the sign today. I drove the familiar streets that seem to be smaller with time. That we live out our lives within a few walls and a few blocks seems to me both narrow and warming. The neighborhood church still stands, the river flows nearby, and the friends and children we knew are all grown or gone. My memories are keen and strong of the smells, temperatures, and colors of the seasons of my childhood. At least I have a childhood home to visit. Just blocks from my parents’ old house the hospital system leveled an entire neighborhood, minus one holdout whose yard is encircled by a parking lot.
I drove to the Provo temple, my usual routine, forgetting the Missionary Training Center was right across the street. Gasp. In exactly 1 month we will drop off Timothy at this place, another testament that the important places of our lives overlap and converge. I felt small again, with life’s interactions, routines, and milestones, so big in my mind but so tightly bound in space.
I have lived in Utah, New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona during my adult life, but the spaces of my childhood are still part of my experiences today in memory and place. Home, school, church, temple, and back again.