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The town of Colerain, if you could call it a town, was a wonderful place when I was growing up. My street was actually a road and the closest neighbors were two acres away. Yes, distance was measured in acres, not in lots. I had a field where our horses and cows lived and on the other side of it was my grandparents' house. All together, we had more than fifty acres which grew even bigger when my grandparents inherited some more.

My childhood days were spent trekking through the field to my grandma's house or through the woods to my aunt's house. Hers was the best place to play. She had a huge old house and a grape arbor and a croquet yard. The trees were enormous and I remember lying on my back and looking so far up just to see the tops.

As an only child with no neighbors, much of my time was spent by myself playing games of pretend. I enjoyed imaging that those woods were filled with sprites, fairies, pixies, and gnomes and it was just a matter of time before I would see one. Evidence of their existence was everywhere, after all. The stream of sunlight peeking through the trees always contained pixie dust.

Our old pony lived in the woods, and not in the field with the other horses. She was so much fun to go and see. She would whinny hello and invite me to nuzzle her neck. If spending afternoons with the pony was good, then riding the big horses was out of this world. I could see so much from atop our mixed draft quarter horse with his golden palomino coat.

These days, visiting the old farm is bittersweet and I even try to avoid it whenever possible. My grandparents still live there but the horses have passed away after living long happy lives. There are neighbors now, and not nearly as many trees. My aunt's house still stands, but it is uninhabitable and falling in. A mobile home has been permanently fixed in the center of the yard. The small stable and shed which once belonged to the beloved pony is long gone. The croquet yard is partly covered with a deck, but that's ok because we never played croquet anyway.

My home is gone and the once small pine trees are big and close together. That lot stands empty, but all around it are full ones with big expensive houses and long winding driveways. The earth is still bare and stripped from all the construction. It is almost unrecognizable to me. I still see it the way it was.
Grandma's house is the same but smaller and outdated. Her great-grandchildren have taken my place and ride dirt bikes through the yard I once ran through just because. She is very old and no longer the feisty woman who would strike fear into me as a child.

It is true that you can never go home. The memories are so much more vivid than what has become of the reality. Change is inevitable and some is welcomed. The change that takes away a childhood might be one of the most painful. I have not forgotten my home, and while staying away may lead others to believe I don't care, the truth is that I care so much it hurts.

Learn more about this author, Aimee Valle.
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