Enough

The streets look the same. You know every dimple in the concrete, every curve in the road. You borrow her bike and ride up to the old neighborhood; the left side of the street that used to be thick forest is all houses now, and the hill isn't as overwhelming as when you were a child, but here it is. The house looks smaller. We were happy here, weren't we? You ask yourself but the simple answers are hard to come by. The days are all hot, beautiful, and we go swimming at every chance. You haven't the time to consider what anything means. They don't ask questions, so neither do you. 

It is too easy to walk around here and pretend I didn't live my life in a whole other world than this one. But departure approaches. We wake up from our dreams, eventually.