On Seasons Gone By

Sometimes lying in bed at night, I’ll retrace old memories in my mind.

It’s not always the exciting ones; in fact, more often, it’s the routine—the things that were once everyday, second nature, that no longer are. Sometimes, it’s just the feeling of an old key ring in my hand that belongs to an apartment I no longer own, the chime the call box makes as I touch the key fob to the sensor, how the lobby door would sometimes take a second to release before opening. I remember the brisk morning air on my face, the sound of electric motors accelerating the light rail toward the city center, people walking their dogs before work—phones and plastic bags in hand. I remember trying to pace my last block to line up with the crossing signal and the quiet satisfaction when it did. I remember the local baristas’ faces, the same group of old people congregated in their usual corner, the thud of a few dozen rain drops striking my coffee lid on the walk home.

It’s all there—frozen in time—the anticipation of new things, nervousness, excitement, and the ordinary. But the reality is, if I go back today, the coffee shop has moved, the baristas have probably started their careers. Andre won’t live next door and drop by with homemade bread if he hears me stirring during work hours. The drizzly, after-work conversations in the hot tub with Tori won’t be about the early days of our marriage or careers. They would be different because we have changed—we all have changed. And, to chase a moment in time would be chasing a ghost. Changing course to recreate a good season in life for its own sake would be moving backwards. In between seasons, it’s easy to romanticize things. All we can really do is be grateful we were present for those moments, cherish the people we met along the way, be confident that new and good things come from change, and know that you can always go back for a visit—even just for a moment.