Returning to New Brunswick, 2014

Walking down the field of a town whose face I recognize but couldn’t quite catch the name. The hoarfrost that hugs the grass then gently caresses the bottom of my shoe, giving the slight audible crunch every time you step- not quite snow, but not quite wet. I moved away to make a better life for myself. It was no big secret the decline of the present place I grew up in carried its burden on all those who live within their limits. I found myself returning here, not by choice per se, but because trying to make a better life for myself that didn’t actually turn out to be better. 

I start to recognize the street names and buildings, some of them more dilapidated then I remember, but I remember the way the broken glass made the sidewalks sparkle. Memories of failed relationships, death, tragedy. All the negatives seem to take precedence over the positive ones. Why is that?

When I walk around what is the equivalent of Main street, I notice, like the city, a face I know I recognize, but couldn’t quite name. But it comes back to me. Remember when not too long ago I mentioned failed relationships and death? This face of this girl, who I recognize as- my ex-girlfriend growing up. She looks as if she’s beckoning me to come down the street, around the corner of the road where she lived. But that’s impossible. For one, she cheated and we hate each other, and two, she died last year in a car crash. It can’t be her but it has to, she had the most distinctive facial features. I closed my eyes, and counted to 10 in my head. But when I opened my eyes she was still there. However her beckoning motion became more of a demanding motion. The one your mother would make when she caught you fooling around in the mall food court.

I rounded the corner of the street, and at first, I was shocked. I remember there being these beautiful spruce trees that casted their shadow on the road. It honestly made playing out in the summer much more bearable. Yet now all I see are dead trees and buildings who look like they’ve carried the world on their shoulders. It made me nervous about my home. As I followed her down the street, she stopped in front of my home, and pointed to the sign on the door. A big yellow paper with “POSTED” in big letters on the top. It was due to be torn down with the rest of the buildings here. 

My mind goes back to her, and I was going to ask her why she faked her death.  But as I turned around she vanished. I looked all over yet still couldn’t find her. Maybe I shouldn’t have hit the bong before I came back. I found out later she did fake her death, or rather her friend told me she died so I’d stop thinking about her. It makes me wonder, was it really her I saw then? Regardless, I return back to a life plagued with an empty familiarity and haunted by the spectre of someone I once loved.